


The Sum Total of the Deceptions

by kjack89



Series: White Collar AU [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - FBI, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - White Collar Fusion, Blood, Con Artists, Established Relationship, Gun Violence, Kidnapping, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Trust Issues, Violence, White Collar Crime, white collar au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:05:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 33,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1806358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Enjolras and Grantaire are together and there's harmony in the White Collar unit, you'd think nothing could get between them. But then one of Enjolras's many old enemies - but possibly the most dangerous - surfaces, and, well, you'd think wrong. Does it count as lying when Enjolras is doing it to protect Grantaire? Does it count as breaking the law when Enjolras is forced to do it to protect the ones he loves? And with the gray areas between law and crime widening, Enjolras and Grantaire have to fight to make it through unscathed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how many parts this is going to be but my outline indicates probably 15 or 16?
> 
> I will try my damndest to update at least once a week.
> 
> Usual disclaimer - I own none of the source material, including and especially the TV show White Collar, and all of the typos. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

Grantaire rolled over and pressed a kiss to Enjolras’s forehead. “Good morning, beautiful,” he whispered.

Enjolras groaned and burrowed his face into his pillow. “It’s too early,” he complained, his voice muffled. “Why are you up so goddamn early? Is the sun even up yet?”

“I know you used to be able to make your own hours when you were a white collar criminal,” Grantaire said, sounding amused, as he slid out of bed, fishing his boxers from the night before out of the pile of clothes on the floor, “but now that you’re a Bureau man, you know we keep strict hours.”

Though Enjolras managed to lift his head enough to scowl in Grantaire’s general direction, he made no effort to move, instead mumbling, “Strict hours my ass. This is ungodly early even for you. I don’t know if I can keep living like this.”

Grantaire laughed as he buttoned up his shirt. “Well you’re just going to have to suck it up,” he said, stooping over to kiss Enjolras’s head again, grinning when Enjolras half-heartedly tried to bat him away. “And if you get to the office on time I’ll even take you out for lunch, my treat.”

Enjolras just groaned and squinted through slitted eyes, watching as Grantaire slipped out of his bedroom. He let out a moody harrumph and rolled into the warm space left by Grantaire, ready to curl up and go back to sleep until his alarm went off. Instead, just as Grantaire was slipping out, Courfeyrac bustled into Enjolras’s room, whistling loudly. “Rise and shine!” he practically sang, pulling the quilt off of Enjolras, who let out a noise like a scalded cat.

“Why is everyone awake so early?” Enjolras groused. “All I want is to sleep.”

Courfeyrac clucked his tongue in mock sympathy. “Well, then I guess you don’t want this steaming mug of coffee that I’ve brought you—” Almost before the words were out of his mouth, Enjolras had sat up and snatched the mug from his hands, and Courfeyrac hid a laugh. “I thought as much.”

Around the rim of the coffee mug, Enjolras asked, “Why are you here, Courf? And why are you bringing me coffee?”

“I have to have a reason to bring my favorite houseguest coffee?” Courfeyrac asked, arching an eyebrow at Enjolras, who just looked unamused. “Fine,” he sighed, perching on the edge of Enjolras’s bed. “I found something. Someone slipped a note under the front door, for you. And before you asked, yes, I already read it.”

Enjolras frowned, more puzzled than anything, and reached out to take the note from Courfeyrac, scanning it quickly. As soon as he had read it, he sat bolt upright, suddenly wide awake. “What’s going on?” Courfeyrac asked, his voice sharp. “That note—”

“It’s nothing,” Enjolras said, though his grip on the piece of paper was as tight as his expression. “At least, I don’t think so. I’m not entirely sure.”

Courfeyrac frowned. “It didn’t exactly read like nothing…”

Enjolras shook his head, his expression grim. “Whatever it is, I’ll figure it out.” He managed a small smile, even though it wasn’t particularly reassuring. “And in the meantime, I’m going to meet up with Combeferre and discuss this with him.”

“Oh, well, if Combeferre’s involved, I’m not too worried, then,” Courfeyrac said sagely, grinning when Enjolras scowled at him. “You know that if you need anything, you only need to ask.”

Though Enjolras smiled and nodded, his smile quickly fell as soon as Courfeyrac slipped out of his room. Instead, he reached for his cellphone, his brow furrowing, and texted Combeferre. [To: Combeferre]  _Need to meet. Urgent._

He sent that message and hesitated before following it up with [To: Combeferre]  _I think I might be in danger_.

* * *

 

“This had better be as urgent as you say,” Combeferre said in lieu of greeting as he dropped into the chair across from him, almost comically large sunglasses over his normal glasses. “You know I hate meeting when you’re on your way to or from work. You  _know_  the feds are watching your every move.”

Enjolras barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “You’re  _dating_  the roommate of an FBI agent,” he said patiently. “If they wanted to track your movements, it’d be easier to do it through him than through me.” Combeferre just glared defiantly at Enjolras — at least Enjolras assumed it was defiant, since he couldn’t see half of Combeferre’s face — who sighed. “Besides, at this point, the feds aren’t the only ones watching me.”

Combeferre frowned and Enjolras slid the note across the table to him. There was a moment of silence, and then Combeferre reached up to take his sunglasses off, his expression as grim as Enjolras’s. “Do you know who this is from?”

Shrugging, Enjolras sat back in his chair, taking a sip of his coffee with feigned nonchalance. “With as many very powerful people as I’ve pissed off?” Combeferre didn’t look amused and Enjolras sighed again and shook his head. “I have my suspicions, but I need to to confirm them through a few different sources. Especially since my list of enemies of recent seems longer than my list of friends.”

There was a brief moment of silence before Combeferre said hesitantly, “With a threat of this nature, especially a written threat, you could go to the police—”

“No.” Enjolras’s voice was sharp, and his grip on his coffee cup so tight that his knuckles were white. “No, going to the police about this is not an option. There’s too much at stake, and too much history that would need to be revealed. Besides which, they don’t have the resources to deal with something like this, not when the perpetrators are most likely criminals who should have been put away a long time ago.”

Combeferre half-smiled. “Well, you’re certainly not going to find me talking you out of staying far away from the government on this one, but that does raise the stakes for us.” He paused, running his finger around the rim of his coffee cup before asking in a strange-sounding voice, “Do you know who they’re going to go after first to get to you?”

If possible, Enjolras paled even more than before, and he avoided Combeferre’s gaze, his voice soft when he responded. “They could go after my family, of course, but I haven’t used my real name since I became legally emancipated, and anyone who knows anything about me knows that we were never close. They could go after any of Les Amis, but they’d have a hard time, especially with the underworld connections that you all still have.” He paused, a muscle working in his jaw, and added, so quietly that Combeferre almost couldn’t hear him, “Which leaves only one person that I would do anything to protect.”

Neither of them needed to say it — they both knew that Enjolras was referring to Grantaire.

Combeferre sighed and sat forward. “So what are you going to do about it?”

For the first time that morning, Enjolras smiled, something almost vicious in his smile. “Anyone stupid enough to go after Grantaire will get exactly what’s coming to them.” His smile faded but his eyes remained sharp. “I will do everything in my power to make sure that he is protected. I’ll have Joly and Bossuet look into putting a few different people on it, and ask Courfeyrac to update his house’s security. I assume you can take care of Grantaire and Jehan’s apartment?”

“Of course,” Combeferre said instantly. “I’ll swing by to visit Jehan for lunch and make sure to set up a few cameras and microphones, standard remote surveillance. It’ll probably be a few days before I can gather all of the equipment necessary for more advanced surveillance and security measures, but I’m there pretty much every night.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh really?” he asked, welcoming the brief break from the serious subject matter. “Spending that much time with Jehan?”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow right back at him. “You’re hardly one to talk. Grantaire hasn’t spent the night at his apartment for over a week.”

“And the only way you would know is if you hadn’t either,” Enjolras shot back, though he was smiling fondly, remembering all of the various nights that he had spent with Grantaire recently. “Besides, three nights ago doesn’t count. We were on a stakeout.”

“Dare I ask how much surveillance you actually got done?” Combeferre asked dryly, and Enjolras’s grin widened. “I thought as much.” He paused, suddenly serious again. “What are you planning on telling Grantaire?” Enjolras’s frown faltered, and he shrugged, looking uncomfortable, and Combeferre pressed, “ _Are_  you planning on telling Grantaire?”

Enjolras shook his head, his expression grim again. “If I’m not going to the police, that means I can’t tell Grantaire either. He’ll be ethically obligated to report something like that, and I won’t put him in that position. I’ve done enough to compromise his morals as is.” With a shrug, he drained his coffee and stood. “I’m going to handle this alone. And what Grantaire doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

* * *

 

“You know, I can’t pretend that lunch out with me is a  _huge_  motivator, but I thought it might at least tempt you slightly to get here approximately on time,” Grantaire said, his voice wry from where he leaned against Enjolras’s desk, clearly waiting for him.

“Sorry,” Enjolras said, though he didn’t sound particularly apologetic. “I had to swing by the café, but you’ll be pleased to know that I picked you up some coffee.”

He held up the cup and smiled when Grantaire’s eyes lit up. “My hero.” He grabbed the coffee and took a swig before asking, “Why’d you have to swing by the café? And why did it take so long that it made you late?”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him. “Is this an interrogation, Agent Grantaire?” he asked coolly.

Grantaire looked taken aback for a moment. “Should this be an interrogation?” he asked, matching Enjolras’s tone. “I wasn’t under the impression that I had any reason not to trust you, but…”

“Sorry, it was a joke,” Enjolras said quickly, giving Grantaire a strained version of his usual smile. “As you might recall, I got woken up a bit early this morning, and apparently it’s made my sense of humor go all wonky.” He glanced around furtively before leaning in and kissed Grantaire swiftly on the cheek. “I’ll work on it. And as repayment for being late, I will take you out for lunch,  _my_  treat.”

Grantaire looked suspicious for a moment, but then his expression softened and he shrugged. “Fine, but we’re going to that deli that I like, and you’re shelling out for me to get the premium pastrami and the spicy mustard, and you’re going to kiss me afterwards and not complain about how it made my breath smell.”

Enjolras laughed and shook his head. “Deal.” He reached out to squeeze Grantaire’s arm before sliding around to sit down at his desk. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

“And if you had been here on time, you would’ve had more time to do it,” Grantaire said breezily, though he winked before heading back to his office.

Enjolras watched him go, a muscle working in his jaw and worry clear in the lines that tightened around his eyes, but then he turned back to his computer. He did have work to do, even if it wasn’t FBI work, and it was just as important that he got it done before anything could happen as it was that Grantaire never found out about it.


	2. Chapter 2

For a few days, Enjolras’s plan went off without a hitch. Joly and Bossuet were quick to organize a rotating shift for people casually watching Grantaire as he went to and from Courfeyrac’s house and the office. More than once Enjolras spotted Bossuet, who always seemed to have the worst disguises, though Grantaire didn’t seem to notice, and a few times he caught sight of a lanky teenager that Enjolras thought might be one of Joly’s clients, Gavroche.

And in the meantime, Enjolras used what few well-placed sources he still had to narrow down his rather extensive list of enemies to figure out who exactly had sent the letter. It was a longer process than he had intended, and after a few days, though the list had been pared down to only a few with enough resources to pursue this line of threats, he still didn’t know who exactly had sent it. He was, however, confident that he was close to figuring it out, which was good.

But most importantly, Grantaire was blissfully unaware.

Grantaire was so unaware, in fact, that he didn’t notice that Enjolras rarely let him out of his sight (and in fact only did so when Grantaire was around other people that Enjolras trusted, like Feuilly and Bahorel). Granted, Grantaire spent most of his time with Enjolras anyway, but when Grantaire reluctantly mentioned that he should head back to his apartment to do some laundry and check to make sure Jehan hadn’t filled his room with plants — again — Enjolras just cocked his head and gave Grantaire his most pleading face. “But you don’t want me to spend the night by myself, do you?”

That was all it had taken for Grantaire to sigh and shrug and return to Courfeyrac’s with Enjolras, and as Enjolras wrapped his arms around Grantaire that night in bed, he almost couldn’t even feel guilty for keeping this from Grantaire.

But then the next morning Enjolras messed things up, and good. When they woke up, Enjolras and Grantaire spent a lazy morning together, since neither needed to be into work early and that meant they could make love and then have breakfast in bed. Of course, breakfast in bed turned into trading filthy kisses and spilling food where it shouldn’t go, including onto Grantaire’s clothes from the night before. “Fuck,” Grantaire sighed, holding up his shirt and squinting at the syrup stain on the front. “I really need to start bringing more clothes here.”

Enjolras laughed and propped himself up on his elbows, watching as Grantaire tried in vain to get the stain out. “I suppose I could clear out some closet space, if you wanted to bring a few things over.”

“A few things?” Grantaire laughed, raising an eyebrow at Enjolras. “Hell, why don’t I just move in?”

Even though Enjolras was the one who had been insisting on Grantaire’s company the past few days, he couldn’t help but freeze slightly at the implication, his shoulders tensing. “What, here?” he asked blankly.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, it’s not like you can move into my place,” he said dryly. “That’s over your radius. Besides, it doesn’t need to be here — Lord knows I wouldn’t want to impose on Courfeyrac, regardless of the fact that he owes me after lying to me for however many years. We could get our own place. Together.”

Enjolras looked at Grantaire’s eager expression, so different than the one he normally wore, the one that tried to contain his enthusiasm under sarcasm and feigned disdain. It was only around Enjolras that Grantaire let himself be truly excited about things, so it twisted Enjolras’s heart to see him so excited about something that was such a  _monumentally_  terrible idea. “I don’t know…” he said slowly, sitting up to face him.

“Well, why not?” Grantaire asked, suddenly serious, sitting down on the edge of Enjolras’s bed. “I mean, we spend most of our time together, even outside of work, and you know that I love you. Isn’t that sort of the next logical progression for a relationship?”

Shrugging, Enjolras avoided Grantaire’s gaze, still feeling the same pain in his chest because he  _knew_  the words about to come out of his mouth were going to hurt him, even though he knew that he had to say them, for more reasons than one. “Maybe, but our relationship isn’t exactly normal, or logical. We have a couple of other issues to work with here.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “Like what?”

“Like my privacy,” Enjolras said, the words curt.

"What privacy?" Grantaire laughed, clearly not catching on to the sudden shift of Enjolras’s mood, which almost made Enjolras feel worse. "I’m practically here all the time anyway."

Enjolras crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Yeah. You are.”

Grantaire’s smile fell, and he frowned at Enjolras. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’re the one who invited me here, who practically  _insisted_  just a few nights ago that I come home with you when I was going to go back to mine.”

Enjolras just shrugged, though he was sure his face flushed at that, and understandably so, because he had. “It’s just…it’s complicated. I mean, it’s complicated enough with just us sleeping together, but to move in together, with you as an FBI agent and me as a convicted felon—”

Grantaire recoiled as if slapped. “Us sleeping together?” he repeated, his voice deathly quiet. “I was unaware that what we were doing here was just fucking each other.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Enjolras started, more impatient than indignant, because while he  _didn’t_  mean that, if it discouraged Grantaire from this asinine idea of  _living_  together, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. “You’re an FBI agent. I’m a convicted felon who’s serving out the rest of my sentence in your custody. Even if we’ve managed to keep our relationship on the downlow, you really think we can keep  _living together_  off of the Bureau’s radar? When we update our addresses to the same place, you really don’t think that someone’s going to catch on? And once it gets out, what then? We won’t be able to work together. You could be disciplined for maintaining an inappropriate relationship with your CI, and…”

He trailed off, because Grantaire was just staring at him, his eyebrows drawn together. “And that’s the only reason,” Grantaire said quietly. “The only reason you don’t want to live together is because of what the Bureau will think of it.”

Enjolras stared right back at him. “What other reason do I need to have?” he asked. “Or, more accurately, what reason do you  _think_  that I have?”

“Well, gosh, I don’t know,” Grantaire said sarcastically, his expression stony. “Maybe because your initial reaction was that you wanted your  _privacy_.”

Surprised, Enjolras shot back, “And what’s so wrong with wanting my privacy? I mean, for fuck’s sake, I’m constantly under your watch or the Bureau’s watch or the Marshals’. I can’t go for a fucking walk around the block without half the cops in the city probably being aware of it. So maybe the few hours I get here by myself are something that I value.”

Grantaire shook his head. “I don’t think this is about your ‘privacy’,” he spat. “Whatever privacy you think you have in a house that doesn’t even belong to you. I think this is about your  _secrets_ , the things that you and Combeferre and Courfeyrac get up to here that you don’t want me to know about.” Enjolras started to protest, but Grantaire shook his head, standing up from the bed. “Don’t even try to lie to me and tell me that you don’t know what I’m talking about. I give you your  _privacy_  in part because I don’t want to know what you do, especially if it’s borderline illegal because I love you and because I trust you, but I’m beginning to think that I shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t what?” Enjolras couldn’t help but ask. “Love me or trust me?”

Snorting, Grantaire asked quietly, “Can you really have love without trust?”

Enjolras met his gaze steadily. “You tell me, since you’re apparently the one with trust issues.”

“With trust issues?” Grantaire repeated, his voice rising in both volume and pitch. “It’s trust issues to be suspicious of the fact that my boyfriend, a convicted felon, doesn’t want to move in together because he values privacy over being with the person he purports to love—”

“I do love you,” Enjolras said quietly. “And not wanting to move in with you right now doesn’t somehow disprove that.”

Grantaire just shook his head. “Then where do we go from here? What’s the next step for us? Because I will always be an FBI agent and you will always be a convicted felon, and this isn’t somehow going to magically get easier.”

“Why does it have to go anywhere?” Enjolras challenged, sliding over to the edge of the bed. “Why can’t we keep going the way we have been?”

“Because the way things have been going, I don’t know if I can trust you.”

Grantaire’s voice was quiet, but it was Enjolras’s turn to recoil, his expression tightening. “And that’s what it always comes back to, isn’t it?” he asked bitterly. “You not trusting me, because despite trying to prove time and time again that I haven’t done anything wrong in weeks, it’s never going to be good enough for you. I can’t change my past, but you seem to forget that and are just as quick to condemn my future.”

“Yes,  _I’m_  the one condemning your future,” Grantaire said, his voice hard. “Because I should just trust you when out of nowhere you think your privacy is more important than our relationship. Because it’s not like you’ve hidden things from me in the past.”

Though his voice was hard, there was something else in his voice, something close to tears, and Enjolras cringed slightly. “Grantaire—” he started, his voice quiet, but Grantaire just shook his head, not meeting Enjolras’s eyes and tugging his syrup-stained shirt on.

“Whatever. It’s…whatever.” He grabbed his pants off his floor and pulled them on as well. “I’m going to stay at my apartment tonight.”

Enjolras’s heart clenched, because that was definitely  _not_  what he wanted, not with that threat hanging over them, but it was going to be pretty hard to convince Grantaire of that after the conversation they had just had. “I don’t want that,” he admitted softly. “I want you to come home with me tonight.”

Grantaire shook his head, and Enjolras could see the tears in his eyes. “But I’d rather not infringe on your  _privacy_.”

There were so many things Enjolras wanted to say — including making a full confession to what was going on that simultaneously made him want to push Grantaire away and keep him close — but he settled for standing, for trying to take Grantaire’s hand, and when he jerked it away, circling his wrist with his hand instead, a little tighter than was probably necessary. “Please,” Enjolras said, his voice shaking slightly. “I can’t lose you.”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras for a moment, but then pulled his arm from Enjolras’s grip, his expression unreadable. “I have to go.”

And so he did, grabbing his suit jacket from where he had tossed it over a chair on his way out, leaving Enjolras alone and staring after him, tears pricking in his eyes as well. It was just frustration, he told himself as he angrily wiped them away. Frustration and stress over the situation. It certainly had nothing to do with feeling like he had just completely fucked up the only good thing in his life.

* * *

 

Work that day was a tense affair that left Enjolras doing desk work while Grantaire seemed to make up excuses to be out of the office. And Enjolras, of course, was worried and distracted all day because he was worried, thinking that now was the worst time for this. Since Grantaire was angry he was shrugging off Feuilly and Bahorel accompanying him places, which made him an easy target.

Every time Grantaire walked out the door of the office, Enjolras found himself unable to concentrate, instead glancing at the door or just outright staring until Grantaire came back, at which time he would flush and look away and pretend like he had been working.

It wasn’t like he didn’t  _want_  to live with Grantaire, and he even knew that Grantaire hadn’t seriously been suggesting that they move in right that minute. It was a logical next step, the kind of thing that they should be thinking about. They certainly couldn’t expect for things to stay exactly the same for the next four years while Enjolras worked off the rest of his sentence. And Enjolras knew he should’ve reacted better, should have suggested that they give it a little time to work out how exactly it would work. Baby steps would have been appreciated, and Enjolras knew that Grantaire would have been ecstatic just to know that Enjolras was even thinking in that direction.

But…

Privacy may not have been the right word for it, but there was always a part of Enjolras’s life that Grantaire couldn’t know about it. He was a criminal — it was just a part of who he was. When he walked into a room he was constantly checking the corners and the escape routes. He couldn’t go in a museum without wondering how best to steal things. And he couldn’t help but still think that the best way to change things was outside of the bureaucracy of the FBI.

And he didn’t know how to reconcile Agent Grantaire, Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the White Collar unit of the FBI, with the Grantaire who seemed to love him unconditionally, because  _could_  Grantaire love him unconditionally if he knew? And could he, Enjolras the criminal, really feel truly comfortable living with an FBI agent?

These were, he mused, watching the doors to the office with a glazed expression on his face, waiting for Grantaire to return from lunch, the kind of things he supposed they should have talked about this morning. And later in the afternoon as he was getting his eighth cup of coffee and still staring at the door, he wondered if it was too late to have that conversation in general.

So when it finally came time for everyone to go home, Enjolras waited for Grantaire, who seemed to be taking his time, probably because he could clearly see Enjolras waiting for him. Finally, though, Grantaire slumped towards the door, his shoulders set. “Can we talk?” Enjolras asked quietly.

“I’m going to my apartment,” Grantaire said stonily. “I can’t stop you from walking in that direction.”

“Well technically you can,” Enjolras pointed out, following him out the door. “Your apartment is out of my radius, so unless you let the Marshals know that I’m with you, we could have a problem on our hands.”

Grantaire made a noncommittal noise. “You mean you could have a problem on  _your_  hands.” Still, he pulled out his cell phone and made a quick call, and Enjolras counted it as a small victory. They made their way to the parking garage and drove out to Grantaire’s apartment in relative silence, though Grantaire noted, a little waspishly, “I thought you wanted to talk.”

Enjolras glanced at him. “I do,” he said quietly. “I just thought this might be a conversation best had at home.”

Grantaire laughed dryly. “And yet your part of Courfeyrac’s house feels a hell of a lot more like home to me than this apartment does.”

After that they fell silent, and when they arrived at Grantaire’s, any plans Enjolras had made for actually having that conversation fled because Grantaire’s apartment door was hanging open, as if someone had broken in and almost knocked it from its hinges. Instantly, Grantaire tensed, stepping between Enjolras and the door, his left hand pressing against Enjolras’s chest to stop him from moving forward, his right automatically grabbing his gun from its holster. “Stay here,” he ordered quietly, and Enjolras nodded, eyes wide.

Grantaire slipped into the apartment, assumedly to clear the place, and Enjolras felt his breath catch in his throat because what if they were still in there? What if whomever it was who had broken in — and Enjolras had little doubt that whomever it was, it had to do with the letter he had received — used this opportunity to kidnap Grantaire, or worse? What if—

The scenarios running through his head were enough to almost give him an anxiety attack, but then Grantaire poked his head out the door, his expression odd. “Come in,” he said, and Enjolras followed him inside.

Things looked pretty organized, and nothing seemed missing at first glance, which ruled out burglary and which made Enjolras more convinced than ever that this was his fault. But what was out of place was the envelope on Grantaire’s kitchen table, clearly addressed to Enjolras, who blanched upon seeing it. “Open it,” Grantaire ordered softly, and Enjolras did, pulling out two things — a picture, and a note.

Grantaire grabbed the picture and looked at it while Enjolras quickly scanned the note, which said simply, “ _We have ways of getting to you. Did you think we weren’t serious? We’ll be in touch when you want them back_.”

“Want them back?” Enjolras asked out loud, confused, and Grantaire let out a furious noise and practically ripped the note from his hand. It was then that Enjolras got his first look at the picture, and he instantly had to reach out to steady himself against the table. In the picture was clearly Jehan and Combeferre, seemingly bound and gagged, and hand from out of the frame holding up something to the camera. “What are they holding?” Enjolras asked, not knowing what else to say, his mind completely blank.

"A newspaper," Grantaire said grimly. "With today’s date on it, I’d wager." Enjolras glanced at him, confused, and Grantaire spat out, "It’s standard operating procedure, proof of life for when someone is  _kidnapped_.”

Enjolras closed his eyes. “Fuck,” he said. Where his mind had previously been blank, at those words, it seemed to kick into high gear, already plotting exactly what they needed to do.  _Call Courfeyrac, assemble Les Amis, get Joly onto his contacts to see who was holding them and where, get weapons, break in, rescue them_ —

“What the  _fuck_  is going on?” Grantaire growled, and Enjolras’s eyes snapped open.

“I can explain,” he said, a little weakly, reaching for his phone. “I need to make a few calls, though, get the ball moving so that we can get them back, but after that—”

Grantaire plucked the phone from Enjolras’s hands. “No,” he said, his voice furious. “No, you will not make any calls, you will not arrange for anything, particularly not anything illegal, you will explain to me who the  _fuck_ kidnapped my best friend and yours and you will tell me what the  _fuck_  is going on here.”

Enjolras sank onto a chair, wanting nothing more than bury his head in his hands or else be  _making plans_  and  _doing something_  because that was what he was  _good_  at. “Let me at least call Courfeyrac—”

“No,” Grantaire repeated, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Start talking.”

"But—"

“ _Now_.”


	3. Chapter 3

Under Grantaire’s glare, Enjolras spilled the entire story — finding the letter, deciding not to tell Grantaire, working with Combeferre to find out who had sent it all while keeping it off of Grantaire’s radar. Throughout the entire story, Grantaire’s brow lowered further and further into a scowl, and by the end, he looked even more furious than before. “So let me get this straight,” he said, seething, once Enjolras had finally trailed off into silence. “You  _knew_  that we — you and I at the very least, and our friends as well — had been threatened. You  _knew_  that very dangerous, very powerful people were after you. And you decided to just…do nothing?”

Enjolras frowned. “Not do nothing,” he protested, though his indignation was weak. “I made sure that you were safe, since you were their most likely target if they thought they couldn’t get to me.”

“But they  _could_  get to you.” Grantaire’s voice was quiet and strained, and Enjolras looked at him before looking away, a blush rising in his cheeks. “They could have killed you. They still could.”

Snorting, Enjolras shook his head. “I don’t think you have that to worry about.”

Grantaire’s gaze flew up to meet his. “And why the fuck not? Don’t you think that these people are perfectly capable of hiring someone to kill you? Don’t you think that—”

“Because they don’t want to hurt me,” Enjolras interrupted quietly. “They want to use me.”

Grantaire just stared at him for a long moment, started to speak, and then seemed to think better of what he had been about to say. “First things first,” he said abruptly. “Who is this ‘they’ you’re referring to?”

Enjolras sighed and closed his eyes. “Felix Tholomyès.”

“Felix Tholomyès,” Grantaire said slowly. “As in, Tholomyès Industries, the multibillion dollar company?” Enjolras nodded. “For fuck’s sake,  _please_  tell me you weren’t stupid enough to rob his company.” The muscle that worked in Enjolras’s jaw was the only answer Grantaire needed, and he sank into a chair, ashen-faced. “Jesus Christ, do you have a death wish? The man has a reputation the world over for his ruthless business practices, let alone what he does that  _isn’t_  legal.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Enjolras asked dryly. “Why do you think he made such an attractive target?” Grantaire just shook his head mutely and Enjolras sighed. “Anyway, Tholomyès won’t hurt Jehan and Combeferre. He’s using them to draw me out, just as he would have used you. He won’t kill me until I get his money back, one way or another, and since I don’t have his money, he most likely would have made me come work for him.”

Grantaire managed a wry smile at that. “There seems easier ways to get a job with a multibillion dollar firm.”

Enjolras didn’t smile. “The job wouldn’t have been on the books. It would have been very,  _very_  off the books. And it would have been repaying him, in whatever form he deemed necessary.”

“And if you refused?” Grantaire asked, already knowing the answer. Enjolras just shrugged and looked away, and Grantaire seemed to deflate. “Jesus Christ.”

Enjolras looked up at him. “And that’s exactly why I had to protect you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “He would’ve used you — would’ve hurt you — and that was the only thing that could’ve made me come after him.  _You’re_  the only thing that he could’ve used to provoke me.”

“Well, clearly not,” Grantaire said, a little stiffly, “since he went after Jehan and Combeferre.”

For the first time, Enjolras seemed to relax slightly. “Yeah, and that was a mistake. With Combeferre, I’ve got time to plan. He won’t hurt him, or Jehan, and there’s plenty of people outside Les Amis who will be more than willing to help when they hear what happened. Combeferre is well-connected and well-liked. I’m not concerned. If he had gotten to you, though…” He trailed off, his expression hardening. “I would have moved heaven and hell to get you back.”

Grantaire shivered slightly at Enjolras’s tone, and only just managed to stop himself from reaching out for him, instead crossing his arms tightly in front of his chest. “Fine. So. Your master plan was to sit tight and, what, hope that Tholomyès went away?”

“My plan was to sit tight until we confirmed it  _was_  Tholomyès, which we technically haven’t yet,” Enjolras said quietly. “After that, I was going to work with Les Amis to figure out our next move, what we could accomplish without me jeopardizing my work with the Bureau and under the limitations of my tracking anklet. All while I did my best to keep you safe.”

“And if I wasn’t in the picture, what would you have done?” Grantaire asked, a challenge in his tone. “Or, perhaps more accurately, if that tracking anklet was not on your ankle, what would your move have been then?”

Enjolras shook his head. “Tracking anklet or no tracking anklet — with you in the picture, this was my  _only_  move.”

“And if I wasn’t?” Grantaire arched an eyebrow at Enjolras, who just shook his head again. “I’m serious — what would you have done then? Would you have cut and run? Just left everything behind here until things calmed down? Isn’t that what you do? Isn’t that what you were trying to do when I caught you the first time?” Enjolras just shook his head again and looked away, and Grantaire’s lip curled. “And, what, I was the only thing stopping you from doing so?”

Enjolras raised his head to meet Grantaire’s eyes. “Is that so hard to believe? I told you before — why would I run when you’re here? This is my  _life_ , Grantaire, for better or for worse, and you are not only a part of that but the biggest and most important part of that. You are the only thing stopping me from running, whether because of this or because of needing to get away from a life that I never planned for myself. If it wasn’t Tholomyès, there’d be some other person that I pissed off enough, or even just the government that I would need to get away from. But with you — with you, I have absolutely no reason to run.” Grantaire’s expression was stony, and Enjolras repeated, a little desperately, “Is that so hard to believe?”

Grantaire shrugged, his expression not changing. “Of course it is. The same way that it’s hard to believe every other word that comes out of your mouth. Because it comes back, as always, to  _trust_.”

Grantaire didn’t shout the words, didn’t scream them, didn’t even snarl them the way he did when he got pissed. Instead the words were quiet, defeated, and that hurt Enjolras worst of all. He swallowed hard and looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low. “The only thing I wanted to do was protect you, and if it made it so that you can’t trust me, then it’s a fair price to pay.”

“But the payment wasn’t me not trusting you,” Grantaire said hotly, his eyes flashing. “Me not trusting you was the price paid when you decided that keeping your secrets was the most important thing to you. You can couch this in whatever pretty lies you want to spin for me, that you wanted to protect me or that you didn’t have a choice, but it’s  _bullshit_. Ignoring that I’m an FBI agent, ignoring that I’m supervising your release from prison, I am your boyfriend, and you should  _tell_  me these things.”

Enjolras’s tone turned brusque. “Well, I didn’t. And I fucked that up and I’ve fucked a lot of things up. But at the moment, our friends are kidnapped, and we need to  _do_  something about that.”

“Wrong.” Grantaire’s tone was harsh. “ _You_  need to do nothing.  _I_  need to report this to the FBI.”

“And then what?” Enjolras asked. “And then it gets shunted down into a different department and sure, maybe we get Jehan and Combeferre back, but we’re no closer to getting Tholomyès off my case, or more importantly, behind bars? Maybe you’re comfortable with that idea, but I’d rather we have a plan that’s actually proven to work.”

Grantaire growled, “Because your plan has worked  _so well_  thus far. Whatever you think you want to do, I  _guarantee_  it will be illegal, and I can’t let you do that. Not even for Combeferre and Jehan. We  _have_  to go through the proper channels for this.” He hesitated before adding, “And if I have to take you into custody to ensure that it happens, I will.”

Enjolras’s eyes flashed up to his, and for a moment they just stared at each other in a tense stalemate. Then a knock sounded on Grantaire’s door, and Grantaire’s hand flew to the gun holstered on his hip. “Who’s there?” he called, standing slowly and drawing his gun as he crept towards the door.

“It’s us,” Feuilly called back, his voice strained. “Bahorel and I. Something’s happened, and it’s…it’s not good.”

Grantaire unlocked the door the let them both in, and neither looked surprised to see Enjolras there. “Your roommate’s been kidnapped,” Bahorel said gruffly, in lieu of a greeting.

“We know,” Grantaire said shortly, passing the note and picture over to Feuilly and Bahorel. “We were just about to head to the office, try to figure this out.”

Feuilly shook his head. “It may be a bit late for that,” he said, his voice quiet, and Grantaire stilled as he continued, “They want to bring Enjolras in for questioning in the kidnapping.”

“On what grounds?” Grantaire demanded. “It’s not like he’s a  _suspect_ , for fuck’s sake, Combeferre is his best friend—”

Bahorel just shook his head, his expression drawn. “Whoever’s involved in this kidnapping is not fucking around. They sent the same information they left here for you to the FBI this morning, only they didn’t send it to Javert, they sent it above his head, and the investigation’s out of his hands. White Collar isn’t even handling it. And it…” He shot a look at Enjolras, who was pale, before finishing, “It doesn’t look good for Enjolras.”

Grantaire shook his head almost wildly, and glanced over at Enjolras, who squared his shoulders. “I made my bed,” he said, his voice as steady as he could manage. “We’ll figure it out.”

“With DC probably involved? Fuck that,” Grantaire muttered, reholstering his gun and crossing to where he had dropped his badge and keys. “We’re going to have to figure something else out. Hell, Tholomyès may even have influence in the FBI, which would fuck us over.” He hesitated for a long moment, then turned back to Enjolras, his expression tightening. “You two should leave,” Grantaire said, not to Enjolras, but to Bahorel and Feuilly, who looked confused. “I don’t want you to be complicit.”

Feuilly and Bahorel exchanged glances and shook their heads in unison. “No way, boss,” Bahorel said easily, as Feuilly added, “What happens to you happens to us.”

Grantaire just shook his head, but he still only had eyes for Enjolras. “You need to go,” he told Enjolras hoarsely.

Enjolras shook his head. “I know that you’re still angry, but please, don’t—”

“No, it’s not about that,” Grantaire said impatiently, and he crossed to Enjolras and pulled him close and kissed him fiercely, so fierce it almost hurt. Then he dropped down to undo Enjolras’s tracking anklet as he told him in a low voice, “You have to go. Do what you would have done without me and the tracking anklet in the picture, because you  _have_  to.”

Enjolras snorted, though there was no amusement in his voice or expression. “What happened to going through legal channels?”

Grantaire said quietly, “I think we’re a little beyond that now.”

Enjolras’s eyes were wide and almost horrified as Grantaire stood back up, tracking anklet in hand, the set of his shoulders determined. “But I can’t just leave you, not here, not like this. You’re liable to get hurt on my account, or else get fired — also on my account.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Firstly, I can protect myself. I’m a fucking FBI agent for Christ’s sake. Secondly, let me deal with the bureau side of things. I’m not going to let you get your ass thrown back in jail when you haven’t done anything wrong—” He paused, and amended, “—Anything  _illegal_ , at least, and especially not when you sticking around here is putting  _yourself_  in danger. These people were willing to kidnap our friends to get to you — what do you think they’d be willing to do to  _you_  if they found you and you refused to help them?” He kissed Enjolras again, just on this side of desperate, and told him again, “Go.”

“I can’t,” Enjolras said, though his protest was weaker than it previously had been. “I can’t just run and leave you here. This is my home, my life.  _You’re_ —”

Covering his mouth with his hand, Grantaire told him, almost harshly, “No. Go. I  _will_  find you when all of this is done, I promise you that — I’ve tracked you down before, don’t fucking forget that, and I will do it again. But for right now, until we can get things figured out here and get Tholomyès arrested, you have to go.” He dropped his hand only to cover Enjolras’s mouth with his own, with one last desperate kiss before he shoved Enjolras away. “Now go!”

Enjolras backed away slowly, too slowly for Grantaire, who gestured impatiently at him to leave, and told him sincerely, “I love you. And I will come back. That tracking anklet was never what was keeping me here.”

Then he was gone, slipping out the backdoor of Grantaire’s apartment, heading to God only knows where, and leaving Grantaire behind, Bahorel and Feuilly tactfully averting their eyes and pretending they hadn’t just witnessed the scene in front of them. And Enjolras’s exit was just in time, since just as the back door closed, a knock sounded on the front door, and Grantaire opened it to find Agent Javert with another man dressed in a crisp black suit. “Agent Grantaire?” the man asked, his voice oily and instantly putting Grantaire’s back up.

Grantaire glanced from him to Javert. “Who wants to know?”

Javert cleared his throat, his expression already exasperated. “Agent Grantaire, this is Agent Fameuil, Criminal Investigative Division Assistant Director.” Grantaire instantly understood — this was Javert’s boss’s boss, more or less. “He is overseeing the investigation into the kidnapping of Jean Prouvaire and the man known by the alias ‘Combeferre’.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, sir,” Grantaire said, his voice cool, “why is the head of CID looking into this? Surely this is a matter for local PD, not even the FBI, let alone someone as high ranking as you. Sir.”

Agent Fameuil arched an eyebrow at Grantaire, and the smile he gave him was as oily as his voice. “It became a matter of FBI interests when I was alerted of the kidnapping earlier today. A picture of the kidnapped victims arrived by courier to my office, so clearly whomever is involved in this wants the FBI involved as well.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow right back at him. “And you think Enjolras is involved? Sir?”

For the first time, Agent Fameuil’s expression flickered, and he glanced at where Bahorel and Feuilly stood, both defiant. “I see you are not completely uninformed on the situation at hand.” His gaze turned steely. “Is Enjolras here with you?”

“I’m afraid that he’s not.” For verisimilitude’s sake, Grantaire added, “He was here earlier, but he left.”

Agent Fameuil’s expression darkened even further and he asked impatiently, “And do you have any idea where he might be?”

Grantaire met his gaze squarely and said, for once entirely honestly, “I have absolutely no idea.”


	4. Chapter 4

It had been so long that Enjolras thought he’d almost forgotten how to run.

Not the physical act, of course, though he couldn’t do that now, as it would draw far too much attention to himself. No, the act of cutting oneself away from the life one had built and moving forward without ever stopping to look back — that kind of running, the kind he needed desperately to do right now.

Once upon a time, that was all he did. When he was on the long con, when he was pretending to be someone he wasn’t, once the score came in, it all ended, and he had to leave. He had to leave the identity behind, and everyone that came with it. And this version of Enjolras, as close as it may have been to the real version that he left behind at eighteen, right now was just another identity, and Grantaire just another person to be left behind.

But he stumbled in his step thinking of Grantaire, feeling like a vice was crushing his chest.

When he had first moved into Courfeyrac’s mansion, he had stashed everything he would need to start over: passport and social security card belonging to someone with his face and not his name, untraceable bills, even a couple of credit cards. It was his safety net, in case he needed to get out of town. But now, now when he actually needed to get out of town, the only thing Enjolras wanted was to run in the opposite direction, back to Grantaire. Now, the last thing he wanted was a safety net.

Instinct took over where memory failed, and Enjolras melted into the crowd just like he always had. For a man as striking as he was — and he had been assured on numerous occasions that he was indeed striking to look at ( _beautiful,_ Grantaire’s voice seemed to whisper in the back of his mind _, stunning, awe-inspiring, drop-dead gorgeous…_ ) — when he didn’t want to be seen, he could blend in like every other completely average looking person, and he relied on that now.

He couldn’t go back to Courfeyrac’s, not with Tholomyès — or whomever — watching the place. And Combeferre was his usual go-to man when he needed clean papers, but he was, of course, unavailable. That left Joly as his most connected asset, someone who could hopefully arrange for a good enough identity to get Enjolras clear of the city for a few weeks, or however long it took.

Casually, with a distracted expertise that he had almost forgotten he possessed, Enjolras slipped through the crowd and made his way to the closest subway station to head to Joly’s. He made it through the turnstile, down to the tracks, and even onto the train without seemingly drawing notice from anyone, and for a moment, just one blissful moment, he let himself relax. He stood in the subway car, holding onto one of the overhead bars, and allowed himself a moment of closing his eyes and thinking regretfully of Grantaire, both of leaving him behind and dragging him into this whole mess in the first place.

But just as he was relaxing, the train pulled into the next station, and Enjolras felt something cold and metal pressed against his spine as someone got into the train car and stood behind him. “If you don’t say or do anything stupid, no one gets hurt,” a voice said, low and pleasant, in his ear.

Enjolras took a ragged breath as the man pressed what was almost certainly a gun further into his spine. “You’re from Tholomyès?” he asked, hoping that his voice sounded casual. “Because he has something he wants from me, and I don’t think he’d take kindly if you hurt me.”

There was a brief pause, then the press of the gun was gone from his back, though it was replaced by a firm grip around Enjolras’s bicep. “Fine. But you’re coming with me. Don’t even think of running.”

And though Enjolras was facing away from the man and so knew he couldn’t see him, he nonetheless smiled widely, though his eyes were steely. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

 

They got off at the next stop, and from there, Enjolras was hustled into the back of a nondescript van, where he had a bag forced over his head for the duration of the drive. It was expected, to be sure — right out of the kidnapper’s handbook, really — but that thought didn’t do much to calm the hammering of his heart. He tried as much as he could to rely on his other senses to tell them where they were going, but short of a rough estimation of time — 25 minutes, give or take, and no sound of going over a bridge, so they likely were still downtown somewhere — he had no clue of where they were when he was shoved out of the van and into a dank building.

The hood was removed when he was inside, and he was at least greeted with a cheerful sight — Combeferre and Jehan, behind metal bars in the middle of a large, dimly lit room. The cage — well, Enjolras supposed it was more of a mock-prison-cell than anything — was roomy, which was good, since Enjolras was instantly shoved inside, the door locked behind him. “Wait here,” the man with the gun said gruffly, and he and his comrade — the van driver, Enjolras assumed, disappeared.

Enjolras instantly turned to pull Combeferre into a hug. “I’m glad you’re alright,” he said gruffly.

Combeferre smiled, though his smile was a little grim. “We’re fine,” he assured Enjolras. “Worried about you, of course, and Grantaire.”

Enjolras looked past Combeferre at Jehan, who looked pale. Jehan had a bruise blooming across his left cheek, but the smile he gave Enjolras was fierce. “I never did learn when to keep my mouth shut,” he murmured, and Enjolras shook his head, a small smile breaking out on his own face as he pulled Jehan into a gentle hug as well.

“Grantaire is going to kill me when he sees you,” he muttered, gently touching Jehan’s cheek when he pulled back.

“Grantaire can go fuck himself,” Jehan said, but without venom. “Like he would have done or said anything different if our places were reversed.” He glanced almost nervously at Enjolras. “Is Grantaire ok?”

Enjolras struggled to keep his expression impassive as he shrugged. “When last I spoke to him, he was fine. He’s trying to deal with things on the Bureau’s side; I’m dealing with things from this angle.”

Jehan nodded, slowly, though Combeferre’s expression darkened. “Let me tell you about what’s been happening here,” Combeferre said, pulling Enjolras aside, his voice lowering as he said, almost a whisper, “Grantaire has no idea where you are, does he?”

“He told me to run,” Enjolras answered honestly, also in an undertone. “And I did. I just…happened to not make it very far.” Combeferre sighed heavily, his brow furrowed, and Enjolras quickly added, “But I’m going to get you out of here, alright? And then you can tell Grantaire whatever you want.” Combeferre didn’t look convinced until Enjolras added, slightly desperately, “Like the fact that I love him and that I’m very glad that I  _told him the truth_.”

At that, Combeferre relaxed, his expression smoothing out. “So you did tell him.”

Enjolras shrugged. “The truth came out.”

Combeferre snorted. “So you didn’t tell him willingly.”

Snorting as well, Enjolras was about to reply, but the man with the gun and the driver reentered the room, accompanied by — “Felix Tholomyès,” Enjolras said, his voice pitched low.

Tholomyès inclined his head, smirking slightly. “I’m glad you recognize me. That makes this entire process so much easier. I assume you know why you’re here.”

He didn’t phrase it as a question, but Enjolras answered nonetheless. “I’m here to get you to release Combeferre and Jehan. They had nothing to do with this, and I know you only kidnapped them in hopes of getting to me.” He paused, allowing himself a sardonic smirk, the kind of which Grantaire would be proud. “And now you have me.”

“I do,” Tholomyès mused. “Though no thanks to your friends. They were most unhelpful, and it changed the order in which I played my cards. The reveal to the FBI was meant to come  _much_  later.” He examined Enjolras closely with cold, gray eyes. “But you’re here now. And I suppose that’s enough. But in exchange for letting them go, what will you do for me?”

Enjolras met his gaze squarely. “I’ll do whatever you want me to.”

Behind him, he heard Combeferre’s sudden intake of breath, as well as what sounded like a muffled swear from Jehan, but Enjolras had eyes only for Tholomyès, who looked pleased. “Very well. I’ll release them.”

“You’ll do more than that,” Enjolras said boldly. “You’ll take them back to Grantaire’s and let them out there, away from your custody. Your men cannot stay and watch them, and you won’t go after them again. When we have confirmation that’s occurred,  _then_  I will give you what you want.”

Tholomyès smiled coldly. “You drive a hard bargain. Very well.” He glanced at the driver, who nodded and gestured at Combeferre and Jehan. “It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen, though I’m sad to see you go so soon.”

Jehan squeezed Enjolras’s shoulder as he went past him towards the cell door, but Combeferre paused, gripping Enjolras’s arm. “I will tell Grantaire,” Combeferre said fiercely, though his voice was quiet. “I will tell him they have you, and he  _will_  find you. You know how I feel about the suits, but he is one of the good ones, and I trust him with your life.”

“Just mine?” Enjolras croaked, aiming for a joke.

Combeferre half-smiled and shrugged. “I value it more than my own.”

For a moment, Enjolras’s breath seemed to catch in his throat, and before he could say what he wanted to — before he could possibly articulate the feelings that welled in his chest and the impossible ache of losing both Grantaire and Combeferre in one day — Tholomyès’s man pulled Combeferre away, herding him and Jehan towards the door. Enjolras and Combeferre’s eyes met once more, and Combeferre gave him a half-nod and a small smile.

Enjolras didn’t need to say anything — with Combeferre, he had never needed to.

This left Enjolras, Tholomyès, and the man with the gun alone in uncomfortable silence as Tholomyès’s other man assumedly went about the business of delivering Combeferre and Jehan back to Grantaire’s. Enjolras didn’t bother pacing or sitting or doing anything — nothing that would give Tholomyès the satisfaction of thinking he had gotten to him. Instead, he leaned against the bars, his stare boring into Tholomyès, who didn’t seem perturbed by this at all.

Finally, after what felt to Enjolras like an unbearably long wait, Tholomyès’s cell phone buzzed at his hip, and he answered it with a quiet, “Yes?”

He listened for a moment, then hung up, glancing at Enjolras. “It’s done,” he drawled, sitting in the folding chair next to Enjolras’s makeshift cell. “Now I’ve met your demands. Your little friend and his boyfriend are freed. My man assures me they’ve been dropped off at your boyfriend’s apartment, and he’s on his way back here, so they’re out of my influence. Are you ready now to meet my demands?”

There was no hesitation as Enjolras met Tholomyès’s gaze. “Oh, I’m ready,” he said, a little grimly. “Ready to tell you that you can go fuck yourself.”

Tholomyès’s other man let out a snarl, pulling his gun on Enjolras, who didn’t flinch, only raised his chin slightly in a clear challenge. Tholomyès stared at Enjolras for a moment before laughing, more of a low, sinister chuckle than anything. “You always were an impetuous one,” he said calmly. “And it obviously took balls to infiltrate my company and steal as much money as you did. So I can’t say I really expected anything different. Still…” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, and gestured at his man. “Shoot him.”

The man did not hesitate, shooting Enjolras in the shoulder, the very same shoulder that only a few months before — had it really only been a few months? — Grantaire had grazed. This shot also mostly grazed him, a warning and a message, one that Enjolras got loud and clear — this was no longer a negotiation.

Still, despite it being no more than a graze, Enjolras still dropped to his knees at the pain, his breath hissing between his teeth as he instantly reached up to touch the wound. When he pulled his hand back, it was covered in blood.

Tholomyès sighed and shook his head. “I loathe violence,” he said off-handedly, glancing down at his well-manicured nails. “But it gets the job done, often faster and with less consequences than one might think. Now…” He gestured at his man, who cocked the gun again. “Are you ready to agree to my terms, or do you need another lesson in how serious I am that you meet my demands?”

Enjolras swallowed hard, still holding his shoulder, his breathing heavy as he glared up at Tholomyès. “Tell me what you want from me.”

“Do you know how much money you stole from me?”

Blinking at the sudden question, Enjolras shook his head, wincing when it caused his shoulder to hurt even more. “I know a rough estimate, but I don’t remember the exact figures offhand.” His eyes narrowed. “Of course, I don’t see why it matters, since that money was never  _yours_  in the first place — your company  _stole_  that money, and I simply repurposed it and returned it to the people who needed it most, the people you most likely stole it from in the first place. If anyone’s the thief here, it’s  _you_.”

Tholomyès sighed again. “And here I thought we could have a civil conversation.” He gestured to his man who stepped forward and brought the gun down on Enjolras’s face through the bars of his cell. Enjolras crumpled as the gun hit his face, pain blossoming across his cheek and forehead, his left eye almost instantly swelling. “How my company came by the money is not what is at question here. What is at question is what you stole from me, and what you’re going to do because of that fact.”

Despite the pain that now seemed to radiate throughout Enjolras’s body, he managed to pull himself into enough of a sitting position to spit a glob of blood at Tholomyès’s feet. Tholomyès glanced down at it and him, amused. “Very well. We’ll discuss this later.” He stood and sauntered towards the door before pausing and saying, almost offhandedly, “Just remember, Enjolras — one way or another, you will pay. If we cannot take it from you, we  _will_  take it from Grantaire. You’re not there to protect him now.”

Then he was gone, leaving Enjolras — and the pain that now seemed almost overwhelming — behind. Enjolras curled into a ball on the cold cement floor, blood trickling lazily into his eye, and thought desperately of Grantaire and what they would do to him. 


	5. Chapter 5

Enjolras didn’t know how much time had passed, how long Tholomyès left him there to sit and think about everything Tholomyès could be doing. Someone came not long after Tholomyès left to bandage Enjolras’s shoulder, and what he assumed was several hours later someone else came to bring him food, but without windows to the outside, he had no way of measuring time..

And mostly, Enjolras was left alone for hours at least, and he knew why. It was a form of torture in and of itself, this kind of solitude, with no indication of the passage of time and with only his worst thoughts of what Tholomyès could possibly be doing to Grantaire in the interim for company. He wasn’t particularly concerned with what Tholomyès would do to him, since there was only so much Tholomyès could do if he really wanted his money back, but the things he could do to Grantaire…well. Were Enjolras a lesser man, he might have broken from that thought alone, from the constant worrying and wondering and praying to a god he didn’t even believe in that Grantaire was safe and out of Tholomyès’ clutches.

But Enjolras was not a lesser man, and Enjolras had been in far worse situations. At least, he assumed so, though he couldn’t think of any off the top of his head. This entire situation was meant to break him, to make him give in to Tholomyès’s demands, but Enjolras was not so easily broken, as his shoulder and the rapidly-swelling welt on his face from the gun could attest to.

Could Grantaire be easily broken, though?

He sighed and shifted uncomfortably on the cold concrete. That line of thought was distinctly  _not_  helpful (nor was imagining any of the many ways that Tholomyès could hurt — let alone break — Grantaire). Grantaire was stronger than Enjolras gave him credit for, which was not so much because Enjolras underestimated him as much as Enjolras was distinctly overprotective — Grantaire could handle himself just fine without Enjolras there, could perhaps handle himself  _better_  than if Enjolras was there, since he wouldn’t be so distracted looking after Enjolras and making sure he didn’t get himself into trouble. The kind of trouble, for instance, that Enjolras currently found himself in.

Which wasn’t necessarily a comforting thought at this point either.

His only real comfort was the knowledge that if anything  _had_  happened to Grantaire, if Tholomyès or one of his goons had gotten to him, Enjolras would quickly hear about it. After all, there was no point in threatening Grantaire or in hurting him without holding that over Enjolras’s head.

So Enjolras sighed again, and shifted as if the next patch of concrete might miraculously prove more comfortable than the previous, and closed his eyes in a vain attempt at sleep, taking solace in the fact that at the very least, Tholomyès didn’t have Grantaire, and Grantaire was alive and well. Enjolras could resist any threat or anything done to himself as long as he held onto that.

* * *

 

Grantaire waited nervously at his desk, turning his phone over and over in his hands while waiting to hear something from…well, from anyone, really. Jehan and Combeferre had been taken straight from Grantaire’s apartment after they were dropped off into FBI custody, and Grantaire had not been allowed to accompany them into the interview room.

And then Bahorel had texted him, since he had managed to slip in, just three simple, heart-shattering words: “ _He’s got Enjolras_.”

Though Grantaire assumed that the ‘he’ the text referred to was Tholomyès, that didn’t quite ease his worry — in fact, it only served to ramp it up. Tholomyès had Enjolras, and who  _knew_  what he could be doing to him right now. And in the meantime, the FBI agents, headed by Fameuil, were grilling Jehan and Combeferre about God only knew what, but probably nothing that would expedite actually  _finding_  Enjolras.

Ironically, this was Enjolras’s number one complaint about the FBI, about the bureaucracy and the red tape that bound the FBI’s hands from doing sometimes what they most needed to, and Grantaire had argued with him on that point many times. Bureaucracy existed for a reason, and Grantaire objectively knew that, but right here, right now, Grantaire felt like Enjolras must feel all the time — wanting to break the system down, or at the very least, circumvent it.

Before he could follow that train of thought too far down the tracks, the door to the interview room banged open, and Grantaire stood, practically jogging out of his office. “Jehan!” he called, then paused in his step, because Jehan was not standing there. Rather, Agent Javert stood rather uncomfortably next to Agent Fameuil, who was regarding Grantaire with cold eyes.

“Unfotunately, we’re not quite done with Mr. Prouvaire, or Mr. Combeferre,” Fameuil said unpleasantly. “In fact, we’re going to be here for quite awhile. Their stories…well, they’re not quite lining up with the facts as we see them.” He paused, looking at Grantaire critically. “As we are going to be much longer than anticipated, I am sure that there is no need for you to stay around here.”

It was a dismissal if ever Grantaire had heard one, but he wasn’t about to go home without hearing anything more about Enjolras. “And what about Enjolras?” he asked boldly. “I know that Tholomyès has him.”

For a moment, Fameuil’s face darkened, but then it smoothed out into his normal unpleasant expression. “I don’t know what information you’re working with,” he said calmly, as Grantaire bristled, “but we have no concrete evidence that Enjolras has been taken by anyone, let alone by an upstanding businessman such as Felix Tholomyès.”

“Upstanding businessman?” Grantaire practically spat, his eyes flashing. “He’s been accused of dozens of crimes ranging from white collar crimes to downright murder.”

“Accused, but never convicted,” Agent Javert interjected quietly.

Grantaire glared at him, but Fameuil took it as a sign to continue. “If Enjolras is really missing, you can rest assured that we will find him. In fact, I can personally guarantee that the FBI will do everything in its power to track down the convict and conman known as Enjolras,” he said in a bored, condescending tone, and Grantaire bristled.

“Considering that only a few hours ago you were prepared to take Enjolras into custody in suspicion of Combeferre and Jehan’s kidnapping, forgive me for being a bit skeptical,” he snapped.

Fameuil smiled coldly. “Enjolras hasn’t been cleared of any charges, yet, and we’re going to be contacting the Marshals office to ensure that he is brought in so we can clear this entire mess up. So make no mistake, we  _will_  find him.”

“You still think Enjolras is  _involved_  in this?” Fameuil just continued smiling and Grantaire switched his gaze to Javert, whose expression was guarded. “And you’re on board with this?” Grantaire asked, his voice cracking. “You think Enjolras—”

Javert shook his head and interrupted, “What I think doesn’t matter. Enjolras is a Confidential Informant and convicted felon, and an FBI asset, and today he managed to get out of his tracking anklet and has not been seen since. Those are the facts as we know them, and until further evidence comes to light, those are the facts that we have to act on.”

Grantaire felt as if he had been punched in the stomach, and it was only made worse when Fameuil added, “Until such a time as further evidence comes to light, you’re not allowed anywhere near this case, due to your…personal relationship with Enjolras.” Grantaire did not flinch and did not blush, staring blankly at Fameuil until he elaborated, a little weakly, “The relationship between CI and supervisor is often a close one…”

Javert cleared his throat. “It’s for the best if you go home,” he said quietly to Grantaire, ignoring Fameuil, who smirked. “There’s nothing more you can do here right now. And you can’t touch this case for a variety of reasons. I’m sure  _someone_ —” his mouth quirked in the hint of a smile as if he knew exactly how Grantaire had been kept in the loop on what happened to Enjolras “—will let you know what’s happening. But for now, go home, get some rest. You’ve had a long and emotional day.”

And Grantaire had, it was true, but he wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to get some rest when his boyfriend had been kidnapped by a murderous businessman and his roommate was still being interview by the FBI. He wanted to be  _doing_  something, something to  _find_  Enjolras, but it was clear that whatever he wanted to do, he wasn’t going to be able to do it here, not with the FBI keeping him arms length from everything.

So he scowled at Fameuil and Javert, grabbed his things, and went home.

Went back to  _his_  place, more accurately, since it had been weeks since the apartment he shared with Jehan had felt like home. Not that Courfeyrac’s spare bedroom felt more like home either. No, home was wrapped in Enjolras’s arms, wherever that might be, which meant that there really was no home to return to at the moment.

And that thought was enough to almost make Grantaire lose it as he drove back to his apartment.

But he couldn’t, not now, not when Enjolras needed him.

So he made it back to his apartment and he even made it through the door without collapsing, but right when he was about to make a beeline for his liquor stash, a light clicked on in his living room, and he froze. “Jesus Christ,” he huffed on seeing who it was. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Bossuet grinned at him. “Don’t let Joly hear you say that or he’ll try to give you CPR.”

Joly rolled his eyes. “I’m a hypochondriac, love, but that doesn’t mean it extends to other people.” He looked at Grantaire closely, his brow creased in genuine concern. “But seriously, how are you? We heard about Enjolras.”

Shrugging, Grantaire sat down heavily on the armchair across from where Bossuet and Joly were sitting. “As well as can be expected, I guess. I’ve been taken off the case by the FBI which is fucking bullshit, but at least Bahorel’s there.” He glanced up at them. “Do I even want to know how you two got in here?”

They shrugged and said in unison, “Probably not.”

Then Joly sat forward, still looking concerned. “Do you have a plan for what you’re going to do?”

Grantaire shrugged again. “Not really, other than try to keep under the radar and still stay involved with the FBI’s investigation as much as possible. To be honest—” He glanced up at them and then looked away. “To be honest, I’m kind of thinking that the FBI is probably not my best bet when it comes to finding Enjolras.”

“Welcome to the dark side,” Bossuet said, grinning, but Joly nudged him in the ribs, scowling.

“Well, you’re probably right about that, and for more reasons than one.” His expression turned grim as he examined Grantaire closely. “Do you know how much Enjolras stole from Tholomyès?” Grantaire shook his head and Joly sighed. “A lot. Even I don’t know the exact figures but word on the street — from a variety of sources, some more reputable than others — was that it was a small fortune, which tells me we’re looking at a 9 if not 10-figure amount.”

Grantaire actually felt his mouth drop open, and it was a struggle to close it. “Jesus Christ, was the man suicidal?”

Bossuet had also lost his grin. “So you see why working outside the law may be your best bet. Tholomyès isn’t just going to let Enjolras off, not without recompense, and since I doubt Enjolras has the money, he’ll be looking for payment wherever he can find it. And, well, there’s only one thing Enjolras really values.”

“Me,” Grantaire said, grim as well. “But Enjolras said that they would only go after me in an effort to get him to work for them, and if they’ve already captured him…”

Joly shook his head. “You’re thinking logically,” he said gently. “This is  _Enjolras_  we’re talking about. He’s not liable to just give in to Tholomyès’s demands, especially if they involve him stealing from people who don’t deserve it or something of that ilk. Which makes you Tholomyès’s only bargaining chip.”

Grantaire paled. “So he may still be after me.” Joly and Bossuet were silent, which was the only confirmation Grantaire needed. “What do I need to do?”

Joly and Bossuet exchanged glances, and Bossuet leaned forward, suddenly eager. “We have an idea.”

“Bossuet has an idea,” Joly corrected, his voice sounding strained. “And while I agree it’s probably our only real option, I cannot in good conscience as a doctor — even a doctor with my medical license technically revoked — condone it.”

Grantaire nodded slowly, though he seemed to pale even more. “Dare I ask why you can’t condone it?”

Joly met his gaze squarely. “Because if done properly, it could save your life and help get Enjolras back. And if done improperly, it could kill you.”

For a long moment, Grantaire was silent, weighing his options. But the more he thought about it, the angrier he became at the entire situation, at Enjolras’s capture, at the FBI’s complete lack of caring, at being kicked off the case and sent home like a naughty schoolboy. If there was a chance that this could work, could get Enjolras back, then didn’t he have to take it?

So he took a deep breath and nodded. “Tell me what I have to do.”

* * *

 

The door to the room housing Enjolras’s makeshift cell banged open, and Enjolras forced himself into a sitting position, squinting against the sudden light. Tholomyès strode in, his expression dangerously angry. “You are in luck,” he announced to Enjolras, who stared at him, stone-faced. “It seems I may not be as able to force you to do what I want as I had hoped.”

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras croaked, and Tholomyès gestured impatiently at the man at his side, who tossed the day’s newspaper to Enjolras through the bars. He grabbed it and opened it, blanching at the headline:  _FBI CONFIRMS DEAD AGENT IN SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES_. “No…” he whispered, scanning the article which didn’t name the agent but described Grantaire perfectly. “No!”

“Someone got to him before we could,” Tholomyès spat. “You may have more enemies than I thought. Unless it all proved too much for your precious boyfriend, and he took matters into his own hands.”

Enjolras bristled, even as he stared in shock at the black and white text callously detailing the last moments of Grantaire’s life. “He wouldn’t do that,” he snarled. “He wouldn’t — he wouldn’t…”

He couldn’t continue, overwhelmed, and his grip tightened on the paper. Tholomyès watched him impassively. “Regardless, it changes the entire game,” he said calmly, as if Enjolras wasn’t currently trying to make sense of the sudden, gaping hole in his life. “We need to reconsider our next moves. Which means you’re going to be staying in here a little longer.” He leaned in close to the bars, his eyes glittering maliciously. “Whether he’s dead by his own hand or someone else’s, I hope you realize that Agent Grantaire is dead because of you. Think about that.”

With that, he turned on heel and left, and Enjolras just stared at the newspaper in his hands until his eyes blurred with tears and he could no longer make out the text.

Grantaire was dead.

Grantaire was  _dead_.

And it was all his goddamn fault.

He should’ve been there, he should’ve protected him, he should’ve been able to do  _something_ , and instead, he was here in a pitiful act of defiance while Grantaire—

A wordless sob escaped from his mouth before he could stop it, and he raised a fist to his mouth, biting down on his knuckles to stop the sound of the sobs that wracked his body. He wanted to deny it, he wanted to claim it wasn’t real, and if it wasn’t for the newspaper story, he might have been able to, to think this was a trick developed by Tholomyès, but now, with the cold, hard evidence in front of him…

He had lost the only thing in his life currently worth fighting for.

And without Grantaire, what did it matter if he gave into Tholomyès’s demands or not? How many more people would get hurt if Enjolras didn’t give in?

How many more people would if he  _did_?

What the fuck did any of it matter if Grantaire was  _dead_?

Now he didn’t make any attempts to stifle his sobs, curling in on himself as his entire body shook. He had thought he had prepared himself for any possible outcome, but how can anyone prepare himself for losing the best part of himself? For wishing he was dead instead of Grantaire? For giving anything to turn back the hands of time so that he had never left Grantaire’s apartment?

He couldn’t help but think of Grantaire’s last words to him, so urgent and rushed and fierce and everything that had been the absolute essence of Grantaire — “ _I_ will _find you when all of this is done, I promise you that — I’ve tracked you down before, don’t fucking forget that, and I will do it again_ ” — and couldn’t help but sob all the harder at the fact that those words were now a lie. He had made a liar of Grantaire, of the man he loved more than anyone in the world, the man who was now dead.

And he cried as if it might somehow stop him from blaming himself, as if it might somehow bring Grantaire back, as if it somehow, some way, might make things right again. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter than normal by necessity. Should be back up to usual length for chapter 7.

The door to the room banged open but Enjolras didn’t even look up from where he sat, knees drawn up to his chest, face pale and drawn, eyes dim and downcast. He had spent the better part of what he assumed was the night crying, and now there were no tears left, just an empty, hollow feeling in his chest, the kind that was too blank to hurt.

So he didn’t bother looking up, not when Tholomyès cleared his throat loudly, not even when Tholomyès’s man rattled the bars of Enjolras’s cell. No, he only looked up when the cell door scraped open, when he felt a rough hand tangle in his hair and  _yank_  his head up to meet Tholomyès’s eyes.

Tholomyès appeared to have recovered well from his disappointment the night before, having apparently come up with a new plan now that Grantaire…that Grantaire… Enjolras’s throat seemed to close and the vision of Tholomyès swam before his eyes, and he swallowed hard. “What do you want?” he rasped, and the hand in his hair tightened.

“I want the money you stole from me,” Tholomyès told him, his voice frosty — maybe he wasn’t as over the loss of his prize bargaining chip as Enjolras had assumed. “All of it. To the last cent. With interest.”

Enjolras couldn’t help himself. Maybe it was the overbearing emotions he had been struggling with since the previous day, or maybe it was just because the situation struck him as so fucking  _hysterical_.

He laughed.

“Good luck with that,” he choked, his words harsh, equal parts bitterness and broken laughter. “Every asset I ever had — and keep in mind that I never kept any of the money I stole from you for myself — was seized by the FBI, and I highly doubt that now, with everything, I can just stroll in there and ask for it back.”

Tholomyès looked unsurprised by this. “Then you’ll have to work for me then, until you can pay back everything you owe. I’ve already put out some feelers for jobs, things right up your alley, and I figure that after, what, six, maybe seven years, you’ll have stolen enough to pay me back.”

Enjolras’s lip curled, and his first instinct was to tell Tholomyès to go fuck himself, because Enjolras had never once stolen for someone like Tholomyès and he sure as hell wasn’t going to stop now, but then he hesitated. Tholomyès would hardly demand something like this if he didn’t have something else up his sleeve, something else that would make Enjolras do what he wanted. “And if I refuse?” Enjolras asked carefully. “You don’t have Grantaire to hold over my head now.”

Grantaire’s name almost stuck in Enjolras’s mouth, and the pain flared freshly in his chest, so much so that it took all of his strength to keep staring straight at Tholomyès, while keeping the tears at bay.

It wouldn’t have mattered — Tholomyès’s man twisted his fingers in Enjolras’s hair, causing him to screw his eyes up against the pain, the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes against his will. “I may not have your Grantaire,” Tholomyès acknowledged, sounding almost bored as he stared at Enjolras. “But Grantaire is not the only one you care about. There’s your friends, your ‘Amis’, and of course, there’s your pretty face to be concerned with…”

“There’s nothing you can do to me now,” Enjolras said hollowly. “Nothing that would break me and make me work for you.”

Without warning, the man holding Enjolras’s hair shoved him forward so that his forehead hit the concrete, making a sickening sound when it did. He held Enjolras pinned down against the floor, the wound from being hit with the gun only yesterday — was it only yesterday? God, it seemed like a year ago since Enjolras was mouthing off to Tholomyès, confident that he was going to be fine, that Grantaire was going to be fine — breaking open, blood slowly trickling down his face as he struggled against the much larger man pinning him to the floor. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Tholomyès said pleasantly. “Blachevelle may not be good for much, but he is fairly renowned in certain circles at breaking people made of far more than you, and in more ways than one.”

Enjolras surmised that the large man currently grinding him down against the floor in a way that under other circumstances might be obscene was Blachevelle — and that was when he realized, with a sickening curl in his stomach, that it might be those circumstances that Tholomyès meant when he referred to more ways than one. “I don’t care what you do to me,” Enjolras spat, rewarded with Blachevelle slamming his face against the concrete another time.

Tholomyès tsked loudly. “Not the face, Blachevelle — we need that as intact as it can be. It is the money-maker, after all. No one would trust a con with a broken face, even one as good as this one is.”

Blachevelle literally growled in Enjolras’s ear, and he would have laughed, ordinarily, would have mocked what could only be the worst of cliches, but the knee digging into his back didn’t allow for much laughter. Tholomyès crouched down outside of the cell so that he was roughly on eye-level with Enjolras. “You may not care what happens to you, or you may claim that you don’t, but in time I could break you that way. Or I could take every person that you care about, parade them in here one by one, and shoot them in the head while you watch until you agree to work for me. Whichever way you choose, I  _will_  break you. Your mistake is thinking that Grantaire was the only thing you cared about. You are not more safe with him gone — you are  _less_ safe because of it.”

He stood, brushing off his suit pants, and turned to go, pausing only to tell Blachevelle in a purposefully calm voice, “Remember: not the face. Anything else, well…”

He trailed off in a purposefully sinister fashion, and Enjolras could practically hear Blachevelle’s grin as Tholomyès closed the door behind him, leaving Enjolras and Blachevelle alone.

* * *

 

The assistant curator paused in the doorway of the gallery, looking over at the man admiring one of the newest pieces in the hall. “Sir?” she called, taking a few steps towards him. “Sir, the museum is going to be closing.”

He turned and flashed a smile at her,  charming enough smile that she barely noticed the just-fading bruises on his face. “Sorry about that,” he said breezily, turning back to the painting. “I guess I got lost looking at it. It’s a beautiful piece.”

Almost against her better judgement, since she was supposed to be clearing the gallery, she stood next to him, smiling at the painting. “It really is, isn’t it? The style is so distinctive, and the colors so bold. I can see why it would captivate your attention. I could look at it for hours.”

“I admit I’m not the best art judge,” the man told her. “But I…well, I used to know someone who was. He could talk about art for hours, even dabbled in it himself, though not professionally. He was far better at it than I could ever be. And he would absolutely love this.”

She smiled at him, taking in his handsome figure, her smile widening slightly as she did. “I’m sure you’re an excellent artist,” she assured him.

He chuckled and shook his head. “No, the only thing I was ever good for was tracing or reproducing facsimiles. My original art leaves a  _lot_  to be desired, I promise you that.” He nodded towards the painting on the wall. “Nothing like this. Nothing nearly as  _alive_  as this.”

Nodding, she hesitated, then touched his arm gently. “Well, I’m supposed to tell you to make your way to the exit, since we are closing. But if you wanted to spend a few more minutes looking at the painting, I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

She winked at him and he winked back. “I appreciate that,” he told her, his voice low and melodic, and she blushed slightly and nodded, heading off to finish her rounds, pausing to look back at the charming young man who went back to staring at the painting in question.

He listened until the echo of her heels disappeared down the hallway, then sighed deeply, looking almost longingly at the painting one last time. Then he stepped up to the significantly smaller but significantly more valuable painting two frames down from that one, dismantling the canvas from its frame with the practiced ease of a professional, ignoring the alarms that started blaring, rolling the canvas and carefully placing it into the tube waiting in the bag he had slung over his shoulder.

He paused and, almost against his better judgment, placed a Post-It note on the blank spot of wall where the painting had previously hung, and then turned and left, his steps measured and calm, a direct contrast to the two guards who sprinted into the gallery as soon as he had disappeared. They pulled the Post-It note off of the wall and showed it to each other, both of them baffled at the cryptic words written on the note:

“ _I’m back. -Robin Hoodie_.”


	7. Chapter 7

When Enjolras’s first heist for Tholomyès went off without a hitch, he had hoped that his second might have been something similar. Smash and grab jobs weren’t necessarily his specialty — he had always favored the long con, the ability to really sink his teeth into a role and use it to extract as much money as possible, only being hasty when he needed to, since he could do the most damage with a proper plan — but he was capable enough to pull them off.

Of course, he should have known better.

Tholomyès unlocked the door to Enjolras’s cell, which had been upgraded to include a mattress but not much more, and tossed a file folder down onto the mattress. “What do you know about the Magnon family?”

Enjolras didn’t even need to pick up the file folder, his lip curling in distaste. “The Magnons made their fortune in human trafficking, specializing in children, if memory serves. They’ve been making efforts to turn legitimate, with a variety of success. I never went after them, for obvious reasons.” His tone turned frigid. “If I had, they would have turned back to human trafficking to get their money back, and I wouldn’t have that on my conscience.” He glanced up at Tholomyès. “But I guess you probably don’t care if it’s on yours.”

“Money is money,” Tholomyès said easily, not even sparing a glance at Enjolras’s enraged look. “And with their attempts to turn legitimate, the Magnons are sitting ducks on a pile of cash that’s ripe for the taking. What they do to get it back after we’ve stolen it is hardly my concern, so long as I have that money.” He raised an eyebrow at Enjolras, who was seething. “And with as much money as you owe me, you can’t possibly say no to getting this much this quickly.”

“And I suppose if I refuse you’ll beat me or threaten my friends?” Enjolras asked bitterly, already knowing the answer.

Tholomyès just smiled in response and pointed to the file. “You’ve got an easy in, all things considered. They’re hiring an assistant butler, and I’ve already got you in for that. And you can get the bank account information from their eldest son.”

For the first time, Enjolras flipped the file folder open, scanning through the information, his eyes narrowing. “He’s gay,” he said, slowly, glancing up at Tholomyès, who seemed amused. “Surely you don’t intend me to…”

Shrugging, Tholomyès gave Enjolras a nasty grin. “I don’t intend on you doing anything other than what you have to do. You can interpret that as you will, and decide your actions from that. Now come.” He literally snapped his fingers, Blachevelle and his driver — Enjolras thought his name might be Listolier — coming to his side. “We have a fitting for a suit. And once you’ve gotten the job — and sabotage your prospects and I promise we will make you pay — you’re on your own, but I’m sure you know what to do.”

Enjolras stood slowly, his expression blank. “Yeah,” he said, voice quiet, something defeated in his tone. “I know what to do.”

* * *

 

Enjolras’s fingers only shook slightly as he buttoned the top button of his waistcoat and smoothed it against the starched white shirt. He had been wearing what basically amounted to a uniform for over a month now, but one never would have known it from how crisp and fresh-pressed it was.

For someone who had professed a desire never to wear a suit, Enjolras looked stunning as always, and for a moment he closed his eyes, his fingers resting against the knot of his tie.

_“I thought you hated wearing suits,” Grantaire murmured, his lips moving against the side of Enjolras’s neck as he reached around Enjolras from behind to adjust his tie for him._

_Enjolras smiled. “Maybe they’re not as bad as I thought,” he admitted, leaning back against Grantaire, feeling his steady, solid warmth behind him. “Maybe when they’re worn for you, I can get behind them.”_

_Grantaire turned Enjolras around to kiss him full on the lips. “Well luckily for you, I always thought you looked fantastic in suits,” he said, reaching up to slide Enjolras’s jacket off. “But even more luckily, you look just as good out of the suit_ — _”_

“Enjolras.”

The voice from the door jerked Enjolras from the memory, and he swallowed hard and forced a smile on his face as he turned around. “How can I help you?” he asked, the ‘sir’ implied by his tone if not explicitly stated as he looked at Nico Magnon, the eldest son of the Magnon family.

Nico leaned against the doorway and looked appraisingly at Enjolras, raking his eyes up and down Enjolras’s body and grinning. “You already have,” he said in a low voice. “Must you be so formal with me, Max, even after all this time? You’ve been working for us for a month now, haven’t you?”

“If I want to keep my job for longer than a month, formality is a requirement,” Enjolras said lightly, trying to give Nico what he hoped was a flirtatious glance, and he flushed slightly, picturing Grantaire laughing at him, because Grantaire had always seen right through Enjolras’s bullshit.

And now Grantaire wasn’t here to see through anything.

But thankfully, Nico wasn’t Grantaire — Nico didn’t even come  _close_  to Grantaire on any level — and he laughed and winked at Enjolras. “Well, I think tonight we should set formality aside. My parents are going to be gone, and I figured that after a month, it was time we got to know each other.”

As if his leer wasn’t enough to tell Enjolras was he meant, Nico actually licked his lips in what he probably assumed was a seductive fashion, though inwardly Enjolras cringed. Tholomyès’s plan had unfortunately been almost  _too_  successful, since from the moment Enjolras had started at the Magnon family’s house under his old pseudonym Max Robespierre, Nico had been flirting with him and trying to seduce him. Enjolras had held off as long as he could only because he knew he needed time to be able to access and drain the bank accounts once he had the account numbers and passwords, and tonight’s opportunity alone with Nico was the perfect time. He could do what needed to be done with Nico and then—

He couldn’t even finish the thought, feeling sick to his stomach.

It wasn’t like Enjolras had never done this before — hell, he had tried to do this with Grantaire, until emotions got involved. Enjolras had no qualms about using his body in the most efficient fashion, and sex was just sex. But for as many times as Enjolras had done what needed to be done to get the job done, in this case, there was so many other things in his mind than just sex. The fact that he would undoubtedly be putting lives in jeopardy by stealing from the Magnons, for one; the fact that Grantaire’s body was not yet cold in the ground, for another.

But the faster he did this, the faster he could get out of this whole situation with Tholomyès’s money, and at the moment, that was all that Enjolras cared about. That was all that Enjolras  _let_  himself care about. So he obediently ducked his head and murmured something about looking forward to it, all while vaguely hoping that Nico’s parents somehow had to stay home that night.

They didn’t.

And though Enjolras dragged out his nightly tasks as long as he could, he nonetheless found himself in Nico’s bedroom as was assuredly the plan by Nico to seduce Enjolras, and as was also Enjolras’s plans, since after a month of recon, he had discovered where Nico hid the account numbers and passwords to the primary bank accounts, and now was his time to steal them.

“You look gorgeous tonight,” Nico said, catching Enjolras’s wrist as he pretended to head to the door to leave, holding him in place. Enjolras mentally scowled, because he looked the same as he did every night, but he nonetheless turned back to Nico, nonetheless let Nico tilt his chin up, nonetheless let Nico kiss him lightly on the lips.

When Enjolras showed no resistance, Nico turned bolder, pushing Enjolras down onto his bed and practically straddling him as he kissed him aggressively. Enjolras let him, giving back only as much as he needed to in order to keep the charade going, though internally he felt numb. Nico unbuttoned first Enjolras’s waistcoat and then his shirt with practiced fingers and bit down on Enjolras’s neck as his hands slowly explored the planes of Enjolras’s chest.

Enjolras couldn’t help himself — he recoiled at the touch, at once foreign and intimately familiar, because the last person who had touched him like that, who had kissed him like that, who had sucked a possessive hickey into Enjolras’s neck, was Grantaire. And Enjolras had gotten to the point of assuming that Grantaire would be the last person to do that.

Obviously, he had been wrong, but even so, he couldn’t let someone touch him like this, tainting the last memories he had of Grantaire. He  _wouldn’t_  let someone touch him like this, and so he pulled away. “I can’t do this,” he muttered, sitting up and running a hand through his hair.

“Of course you can,” Nico said soothingly, pulling Enjolras back to him, ignoring the way that Enjolras was stiff and unresponsive as he kissed him. “I know you’re nervous, but I won’t turn you in for doing anything with me. I mean, I’d probably be more likely to get you fired if you didn’t. I know you want this — so just let it happen.”

His hand dropped to Enjolras’s waist, to the waistband of his pants, skimming his fingers first over and then under the waistband, and Enjolras snapped. He would  _not_  let someone touch him there, where Grantaire had been the last one to touch, to see, to kiss, his touches and kisses reverent as always — he would not  _let_  someone force his way into the few memories Enjolras had left.

So he grabbed the lamp off of Nico’s nightstand and smashed him over the head with it, watching dispassionately as Nico crumpled from the blow.

For one brief moment, he let himself panic, but then he pulled himself together just as quickly. He may not be one for contingency plans — that had always been more Combeferre’s area than his — but he had improvisational skills, and that was mattered most now. He left Nico barely stirring on the bed and rushed to Nico’s desk, finding the slip of paper hidden under the false bottom of the second drawer.

His actions might have rendered Nico almost unconscious, but they had also cut his time frame down from fifteen minutes to, at most, five, and he went to work on Nico’s computer, wishing not for the first time that Les Amis were there to use their skills to help. Still, the transfer was made and Enjolras made a half-hearted attempt to clean his fingerprints from Nico’s laptop, not honestly caring if the FBI or the police knew that it was him who had stolen the money.

And then he ran.

His original plan had called from a different exit strategy but again, Enjolras was improvising, and he knew that the door leading out to the veranda through the study was rarely locked and the perfect place to slip out, so he did. But he hadn’t counted on one of the guards — since the Magnons employed a full  _fleet_  of security guards — shining a flashlight on him as he did. “Who’s there?” the guard asked, his voice gruff, and Enjolras didn’t even think about what he did next.

He rushed the guard, moving swiftly to try to disarm him, for one, and knock him out like he had Nico, for another. He couldn’t risk the guard alerting others to a disturbance, not at this point — he could only hope that he could subdue the guard quickly and easily.

And to his surprise, he mostly managed it, since for some reason, the guard in question didn’t seem very eager to fight back, even as Enjolras punched him in some key areas to get him doubled over with pain. Enjolras was just about ready to deliver the blow that would hopefully knock the guard out long enough for him to make his escape when the guard gasped, breathless from being struck in the ribs, “Enjolras!”, and Enjolras drew back, eyes wide as he tried to make sense of who he suddenly, inexplicably recognized.

The security guard was Grantaire.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little different because it’s from Grantaire’s POV and is a bit fragmented in order to encompass about a month and a half’s worth of prior happenings.

It was an odd feeling, literally placing your life in someone else’s hands, but Grantaire sat stoically next to Joly on Enjolras’s bed, waiting for Joly to finish the cocktail of drugs that would — theoretically — simulate death. The same cocktail made with too much of one ingredient or another could also kill him, as Joly had warned him about eighty times since Grantaire had decided on this as his only viable course of action, but Grantaire couldn’t really think about that right now. He couldn’t  _let_ himself think about that right now, because the only thing he could think about, the only thing keeping him here and calm, was getting Enjolras back.

Bahorel had texted him a few times to update him on what was happening with Jehan and Combeferre within the FBI, but Grantaire had concluded that going through the FBI channels, with Fameuil determined to shut him out at every turn and still under the delusional belief that Enjolras was somehow involved in his own disappearance as well as Combeferre and Jehan’s initial kidnapping, would be worse than doing nothing, which wasn’t an option either.

He had to get Enjolras back. And to do so he had to stop Tholomyès from coming after him or using him as leverage.

And to do that, he had to put his life in Joly’s hands and trust that in faking his death, Joly wouldn’t accidentally actually kill him.

It was a complicated situation.

Still, Grantaire didn’t even stop to think about it, to evaluate his other options, merely taking a deep breath and nodding slowly when Joly turned to him and asked him quietly, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Then Joly slid the needle into Grantaire’s arm and pushed the plunger down.

Grantaire’s last thought was of Enjolras before the world went black.

* * *

 

“It’s horrible,” Courfeyrac said, his voice shaking slightly and tears pricking in his eyes as he stared into the TV camera outside of his mansion. “He is — he  _was_  — a friend of mine, and I never…I never would have thought…”

His voice broke and he had to stop for a moment to gather himself (the news reporter had to take a moment as well, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a tissue), and when he spoke again, his voice was more determined. “I don’t know who was responsible for what I can only describe as the cold-blooded murder of an FBI Agent, but if I ever find out, I will personally ensure that they are brought to justice.”

The reporter turned back to the camera, her tone turning brisk. “Police have not yet released the cause of death of the as-yet-unnamed FBI Agent found this morning in Mr. de Courfeyrac’s home, but some have speculated that the agent may have been murdered by an enemy he made during his work with the FBI…”

Courfeyrac unclipped the microphone from his tie and sidled away from the reporter, resisting the urge to whistle. He casually ambled in the direction of one of the crime scene technicians and coughed in what he hoped was a subtle way. Given the look Joly shot him, it clearly wasn’t. “What did you think?” he asked, trying not to sound too eager.

Joly rolled his eyes. “It was a bit melodramatic for my taste,” he said dryly, bending down and pretending to bag some evidence. “But I think it got the job done. And if you play your cards right, you’ll be asked for an in-depth, in-studio interview and you can lay the blame for Grantaire’s death however we see fit.”

Nodding, Courfeyrac glanced around before asking Joly in a quieter tone, “How’s Grantaire?”

“Dead.” Joly straightened and shrugged as he looked away. “For the time being, anyway. He should be fine, and my contact at the Medical Examiner’s Office knows how to take care of things on that end. And once Grantaire wakes up, we’ll go from there.” He glanced over Courfeyrac’s shoulder and nodded towards the media people just showing up. “Now go do what you do best and con the hell out of the national news.”

Courfeyrac saluted and took a moment to put on his best mourning expression, letting his shoulders slump in grief and despair as he turned to head back to the cameras, his well-rehearsed story on his lips. Joly headed back towards the house so that he could keep an eye on what was happening inside, and winked at Bossuet, wearing coveralls labeled “OFFICE OF CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER”, smiling slightly when Bossuet winked back, though that smile faded as Bossuet helped roll the gurney out of the house, the zipped black body bag containing Grantaire lying on top.

* * *

 

“Agent Bahorel.”

Bahorel stopped in his step, exchanging a glance with Feuilly, who automatically stopped with him, in sync as always to his partner’s moves. Agent Javert looked at them both, something close to understanding in his expression, and his tone was kind as he told Feuilly, “I just need a word with Agent Bahorel. I promise he won’t be long.”

They had all been on edge since the news of Grantaire’s death, and Feuilly’s shoulders slumped as he nodded, squeezed Bahorel’s arm, and left. Bahorel turned back to Javert, his face expressionless. “Agent Javert. You wanted a word.”

For a moment, it looked as if Javert was going to say something, but then his expression seemed to close. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Bahorel didn’t even bother sounding offended; he just sounded as exhausted as he was.

“With Agent Grantaire. I know what happened. I understand why it had to happen this way. But if I could see through things, that means there are others who do as well.”

Now Bahorel bristled, his eyes flashing as he drew himself up to his full height. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said frostily.

Javert raised both of his hands, his expression mild. “I think you do,” he said carefully. “And whatever you — or anyone else — might think, you can trust me. I bear no love for Agent Fameuil, only a desire to see justice done against those who deserve it, by whatever means necessary within the boundaries of the law. And whether you’ll cop to it or not, what you’ve done here — it pushes the boundaries of legality, if not outright breaks them. And I don’t want any involved to be mired in the consequences if this goes south.”

For a long moment, Bahorel considered Javert’s words. “I think Grantaire realized he was out of options,” he said carefully, and as noncommittally as he could. “And I think that what happened to him was a tragedy in no small part brought about by this office. And perhaps in death, Grantaire will find the freedom that he needs.”

With that said, he turned on heel and left, not noticing the contemplative look that crossed Javert’s face.

* * *

 

Grantaire accepted the steaming mug of tea from Joly, trying not to tremble as he did. He still didn’t quite feel alive, despite it being almost twelve hours since he had been resuscitated from his death-like sleep. And though for all intents and purposes their ruse seemed to have worked and his death seemed to have been accepted by both the media and the FBI and — hopefully — Tholomyès, the relief that he felt wasn’t enough to make him feel at ease especially since he still didn’t know what he was going to do.

He knew the gist of his plan, had talked it through with Joly and Bossuet before even making the choice to stage his own death, but now that it was here, now that he was truly severed from the FBI, it was a little daunting. “What am I going to do?” he asked quietly, more rhetorical than anything, glancing around the walls of the safe house currently acting as his residence.

“You’re going to find Enjolras,” Bossuet told him bracingly. “And then you’re going to nail the sons of bitches that took him and Jehan and Combeferre.”

“But how?”

There was a lot of existential despair loaded in that question, and Joly and Bossuet exchanged glances before Joly told him, “You just  _will_. Because you have to. And you have us, to help you, and resources that you would never have had in the FBI. And once we get Combeferre on board—”

Grantaire choked on his tea. “We’re telling Combeferre?” he rasped, paling even more than he had been. “I’m a dead man.”

Bossuet’s brow furrowed. “Combeferre’s hardly going to kill you for faking your death—” he started, but Grantaire shook his head, eyes wide.

“No, but he  _will_  tell Jehan,” Grantaire said grimly. “And Jehan  _will_  kill me.”

“Oh.”

All three of them fell silent until Bossuet cleared his throat. “A little whiskey for your tea?”

Joly frowned, about to interject that while he was never one to object to a little whiskey — and really, he wasn’t, the man could drink an incredible amount of liquor — it wasn’t necessarily a good idea for Grantaire to drink until they were sure the drugs were flushed from his system, but Grantaire just nodded. “Yeah.” He held his mug up for Bossuet to pour some whiskey into it. “And then we have to plan.”

* * *

 

Ten days, five hours, and approximately twenty-three minutes.

That was how long Jehan had been under the impression that Grantaire, his roommate and his best friend, was dead. Combeferre had been clued in to their plan when Joly deemed it safe, about four days after the fact, and he had agreed — albeit  _extremely_  reluctantly — to keep Jehan in the dark until they could be sure that the FBI and Tholomyès were not going to catch on.

If Grantaire had had his way, he would have rather actually died than tell Jehan what he had done, especially when Combeferre walked Jehan into the safehouse and Grantaire saw Jehan’s red-rimmed eyes and wan features. He was clearly grieving, and Grantaire felt that like a knife twisting in his gut, because he was responsible for that.

As soon as Jehan saw Grantaire, he froze in his step. Combeferre gripped his arm, whispering urgently to him, but Jehan wasn’t listening, staring straight at Grantaire, who tried to smile reassuringly at him.

It was like something out of a movie, Jehan drifting across the room towards him, something close to wonder in his expression. And then once he reached him, he decked Grantaire in the face. “You. Absolute. Asshole!” Jehan shouted, punctuating each word with a none-too-gentle punch to Grantaire’s shoulder. “You let me think you were dead!”

Grantaire winced but let Jehan hit him, knowing it was better in the long run if he did, despite the pain and assured bruising that would follow to match what would undoubtedly be a spectacular black eye. “I had to,” he said, quiet yet determined. “The media had to believe that I was dead so that Tholomyès would believe that I was dead.”

Jehan glared at him, though there wasn’t much anger in the glare — Grantaire could see the edges of relief in Jehan’s expression, which meant the flare of fury was abating. “You should have told me,” he said quietly. “From the beginning. I’m your friend, your roommate, you should have—”

“We can’t trust the FBI either. And with you being questioned by the FBI, we couldn’t risk it.”

Grantaire’s words were stark, and Jehan fell silent, eyes searching his, and he slowly nodded. “Well then you’re well and truly fucked, aren’t you?” Just as suddenly as he had punched Grantaire, he pulled him into a fierce hug, balling his fists in Grantaire’s shirt. “You stupid fucker,” he whispered, quietly enough that only Grantaire could hear (and only Grantaire could hear the sob in Jehan’s voice). “Don’t you ever do that again, ok?”

“Well, I can’t promise not to die,” Grantaire said, trying to keep his voice light, but he gripped Jehan just as tightly.

When Jehan pulled back, his expression was almost darkly contemplative. “What about Enjolras?” he asked. “He must think you’re dead, too.”

Grantaire went white, and Combeferre took Jehan’s hand and squeezed it. “We know,” he said quietly. “And believe me, I had quite a problem with that initially, knowing what  _my_  best friend is undoubtedly going through right now.” He wasn’t lying, and the bruise only just now fading on Grantaire’s ribs was testament to that (seriously, how had violence become the de facto response to finding out he was alive?). “But this is as much for his protection as it is for Grantaire’s. The only way Enjolras would give in to Tholomyès would be if Grantaire were threatened, or if he had nothing left to fight for.”

“And you want him to give in to Tholomyès?” Jehan asked, frowning. “I thought we wanted to get him back.”

“But the only way to get him back alive and intact is to track him down. The only way to track him and not just discover his body when he won’t give Tholomyès what he wants is to get him doing what he can for Tholomyès — pulling jobs. And the only way to get him to do that…”

Though Jehan didn’t look fully convinced, he nodded anyway. “It’s selfish of me,” Grantaire admitted softly. “It’s probably the most selfish thing I’ve ever done. And I can only hope that when we get Enjolras back, he’ll forgive me. But this was the only way we could think of to get Enjolras back at all, and there nothing that I wouldn’t do to get Enjolras back.”

Jehan raised an eyebrow at him. “Nothing?”

Grantaire met his gaze evenly. “Nothing. Bahorel and Feuilly are running interference at the FBI for the moment, but in the end, I will take what consequences come my way if it means getting Enjolras back.”

After a long moment mulling over Grantaire’s words, Jehan shrugged. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s get to work.”

* * *

 

Grantaire felt like he was in a bad spy movie, skulking around one of the last remaining payphones in the city, wearing an almost comical pair of sunglasses and a trench coat with the collar turned up. But Bahorel, through a clandestine rendezvous with Bossuet, had passed on the message that Javert knew that Grantaire was alive, and wanted a word, and the only way they could think to do that without the call being traced was to go old school and low-tech. Grantaire had a burner phone, but they didn’t want to give that number away just yet, and besides, it brought its own risk in terms of triangulation, so they were doing this instead.

It was evening, and it was cool out, so at the very least Grantaire didn’t look quite out of place, even with his sunglasses on. And it was a neighborhood he didn’t think he had ever been to before, and he had taken public transportation and avoided CCTV as much as he could.

Luckily, no one was really looking for him, which was the only thing that reassured him and kept him in place instead of bolting. When the phone rang, Grantaire nearly fell over, his nerves were stretched that thin, but he quickly grabbed the phone and said gruffly, “Go.”

“It’s good to hear your voice,” Javert said carefully, his tone neutral. “I’m not going to waste time telling you anything you don’t already know. What I will say is this: Robin Hoodie is back.”

Grantaire instantly perked up, because this is what they’d been waiting for. “Details,” he said, almost urgently.

He could tell Javert had smiled slightly by his tone. “He stole a painting and left a note. ‘I’m back. —R.H.’ He was never one for theatrics, but I imagine in this case he was sending as much of a message as he dared.” He rattled off the exact details of the crime scene and then hesitated, and when he spoke again, the smile was gone. “We need your help. You’re the only one who ever caught him, and to bring him in, to stop him, we’re going to need you.”

“I don’t want to stop him.” Grantaire’s voice was raspy and for one absurd moment, he felt a little like Batman, even though he wasn’t even purposefully disguising his voice. “I don’t want to bring him in. I want to find him. And I will. As you said, I’m the only one who ever has, and I will do it again.”

For a long moment — so long that Grantaire almost thought he had hung up — Javert was silent. “So you would rather align yourself with criminals than the FBI,” he said finally, something disgusted in his tone.

“I love him,” Grantaire said, no defiance in his tone, not even attempting an explanation. And with that, he hung up.

And as he walked away from the telephone, Grantaire allowed himself a triumphant smile, his hand clenching into a fist inside the pocket of his coat.

* * *

 

“I’ve got some leads,” Joly said, spreading a few files on the table. “These are potential heists that my contacts have put forward, and I’ve run them by Combeferre to narrow them in terms of potential take. He got bank account information and cross-checked it with security, and these three seem most likely in terms of high reward and minimal security.”

“Personally,” Combeferre said, sitting next to Grantaire, whose brow was furrowed, “I think this one is most likely. It’s an old family, and it would be very easy for Enjolras to pose as a social climber—”

Grantaire shook his head and reached forward for one of the three files. “No. It’s this one.”

Joly frowned at it. “The Magnon family? What makes you so sure?”

Grantaire’s expression was distant. “We talked about the Magnons once. They have a lot of money, but they’re criminals — human trafficking, if memory serves. He had reasons for why he would never go after them, noble reasons — very  _Enjolras_  reasons.” Combeferre cracked a smile and Joly nodded contemplatively. “If I were Tholomyès, that would be the heist I would put him on, to hurt him as much as possible while still getting his money.”

Shrugging, Joly exchanged a look with Combeferre. “You may have a point,” he acknowledged. “And we’ll look into that one first, run down some leads, question some friendlies—”

“No.” Grantaire’s voice was steely. “It  _is_  that one, and we don’t have the time to check, not when we don’t know how long Enjolras will be on the con. That’s the one I’m going after, and you can either help me or not.”

Combeferre sighed. “We’re on your side,” he reminded Grantaire quietly. “And it would be prudent to verify our options. But if you’re determined, of course we will help you. And I have a few ideas on how we go about doing that.”

Grantaire smiled slightly. “Good. I’m all ears.”

* * *

 

It had been so easy that Grantaire was almost suspicious. Combeferre had procured proper documentation, even a social security number and work history, and the Magnons had been glad to hire Grantaire — er, Mr. Grant Eyre, because Combeferre had a highly inappropriate sense of humor — as a part of their security detail.

He had caught sight of Enjolras on his first day, and it had been such a relief to see Enjolras alive and whole, if thoroughly miserable, and not just because it proved Grantaire correct. Enough of a relief to tell Grantaire what he was doing was right, somehow, despite the various laws he was probably (definitely) breaking.

But by the time he had been working for the Magnons for over a week, he hadn’t found an opportunity to approach Enjolras, or come up with a plan for what he was going to do when he did.

In the end, it didn’t matter, because Enjolras came to him, in the most unexpected way possible. Grantaire had been on perimeter duty when Enjolras came crashing through the veranda, and Grantaire froze, unsure of what to say or how to say it. So he settled for asking, in a broken, weak voice, “Who’s there?”

He honestly didn’t expect Enjolras to take a swing at him, and even less for the punch to connect, and when Enjolras started pummeling him, Grantaire couldn’t find it in himself to fight back. He could take Enjolras, easily, but right now, this felt like a punishment he deserved, even if Enjolras didn’t know it. But when Enjolras made as if to deliver a blow that would probably knock Grantaire out, or at least stun him, Grantaire couldn’t help but gasp, as his last defense, “Enjolras!”

And when Enjolras pulled back, his eyes wide in recognition, Grantaire felt every excuse he had ever thought to offer Enjolras die on his lips and he settled for saying, perhaps unnecessarily, “It’s me.”


	9. Chapter 9

For a long moment, Enjolras just stared at Grantaire, his ears ringing so much so that he could barely here Grantaire’s weak, “It’s me.”

Because it  _was_ Grantaire — it was undoubtedly a very alive Grantaire, who was  _here_  of all places, and literally none of this made any kind of sense, but in that moment, nothing could have mattered less to Enjolras. What mattered was that Grantaire was  _alive_.

So he did the only thing that he could do — closed the space between them and kissed Grantaire deeply, wrapping his arms around him and reveling in the sheer  _feeling_  of Grantaire in his arms, something he had never thought he would feel again.

Grantaire kissed him back almost fiercely, his arms around Enjolras’s neck, his fingers locked in Enjolras’s curls. When they pulled away — not far, neither could bear truly separating, their noses bumping together in a way that was incredibly intimate and wonderful — Grantaire let out a noise that might have been a laugh and might have been a sob. “I was half-afraid you were going to punch me,” he murmured, just on this side of hysterical.

Enjolras frowned. “Why in the world would I punch you?” he asked, his grip on him tightening. “You have no idea —  _no idea_  — how happy I am that you’re alive.”

“Well, that’s what I mean,” Grantaire said, pulling away slightly more, just enough that he could meet Enjolras’s eyes. “You thought…” The words seemed to stick in his throat and Enjolras closed his eyes, a pained look flitting across his face. “And I let you think that. You would be well justified in decking me. Prouvaire already did. And Combeferre.”

Enjolras drew him closer to kiss him again. “If they already punched you, that’s the only punishment you need,” he murmured. “Thinking you were…” He too couldn’t get the words out, and he was almost embarrassed at the tears that sprang to his eyes, swallowing hard before he could speak again. “I think that was punishment enough for both of us.”

Grantaire nodded, too overwhelmed with emotion to speak, and for a long moment they just held each other before he managed, “I’m here now — I’m here now.”

Now it was Enjolras’s turn to pull back, his brow furrowed. “And speaking of, we need to get away from here. Will you be missed?”

For a moment, Grantaire didn’t even follow what Enjolras was talking about, so caught up in the thrill of having him back that he had forgotten everything that had happened. “Oh. Shit. Yeah. I should be fine for half an hour or so?”

“Good.” Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s hand and pulled him from the house, cutting through the hedges lining the yard with almost military precision, having clearly planned and mapped this route long in advance. They didn’t run — that was too obvious a move — just walked quickly, hand-in-hand and trying not to get lost in the fact that they  _were holding hands_  when neither was sure they ever would have been able to again.

Once he deemed them far enough from the Magnon mansion, Enjolras pulled Grantaire down an alley, and they drew to a halt, facing each other. Enjolras had lost the relieved look from his face, replaced with an expression more apprehensive than anything. “I know I promised not to punch you for pulling what you did, and I won’t, provided you give me as much detail as you can with what limited time we have. But I’m reconsidering punching you for coming here.”

“What, to this alley?” Grantaire asked, unable to stop himself even with the situation as tense as it was. “Because I’m pretty sure you dragged me here.”

Enjolras inhaled sharply, and for a fraction of a moment, Grantaire actually thought that Enjolras might hit him. Instead, he laughed quietly and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Grantaire’s. “Christ, I missed you,” he said, lacing their fingers together. “You have  _no_  idea how much I missed you, missed this, missed all the stupid shit that no one in their right mind should miss.”

Grantaire smiled slightly. “It  _is_  probably a little fucked up,” he agreed. “But that’s really what I missed the most, too. Arguing, fighting, teasing each other—”

“Witty banter—”

“Sarcastic comments—”

“Scathing dismissals of an argument one has worked days on crafting—”

“Stunning obliterations of opposing viewpoints—”

They both stopped, each laughing quietly, until the smile slipped off of Enjolras’s face and his expression turned serious. “You shouldn’t have come here,” he said quietly. “Here, as in the Magnon family, here as in undercover . It’s dangerous, Grantaire, so dangerous, especially as I assume you faked your death for a reason.”

Grantaire shook his head slowly. “I faked my death precisely so that I  _could_ come after you,” he said quietly. “Joly planned it — I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you — and it was meant for the dual purpose of keeping Tholomyès off my scent and not allowing him to use me against you, and also to keep the FBI from interfering.”

Enjolras looked at him sharply. “The FBI?” he repeated. “What’s happening with the FBI?”

Grantaire winced. “I forgot that you’ve been, uh, out of the loop. Well, after you took off from my place, this stick-up-his-ass high-up guy from DC showed up…”

For the next few minutes, he filled Enjolras in on the happenings with Agent Fameuil and the FBI, and why it had become more vital than ever that Grantaire fake his death and get away from all of that to focus on finding Enjolras. Enjolras listened intently, his brow furrowing as Grantaire went on, and when he finished, Enjolras sighed heavily. “This makes it even stupider of you to show up here. Don’t you think that the FBI is going to be looking at any potential targets of mine in hopes of finding me? What do you think they’d do if they found you, alive? Or worse — Tholomyès! He’s undoubtedly keeping eyes on this op as well!”

“It was worth it,” Grantaire said simply. “The risk was worth it, compared to the reward. I got you back, and that’s what matters.”

He leaned in to kiss Enjolras, but Enjolras pulled away, his expression troubled, and something hidden behind his eyes. “You didn’t, though,” he said quietly. “You don’t have me back. Tholomyès has me still, and with you alive, that puts a bargaining chip back in his hand.”

Grantaire frowned. “But he doesn’t know that—” he started, but Enjolras cut him off.

“He’ll find out. One way or another. You  _cannot_  underestimate him, not when he and I are this far into this. He will do absolutely anything to get his money back from me, and that includes using you.” He swallowed hard and stepped away from Grantaire, though their hands were still laced together. “As happy as I am that you are alive — and I truly cannot express to you how incredibly ecstatic I am that you are alive — with you alive, I’ll never be free from Tholomyès. If he gets to you, he knows I will do anything to keep you safe. And if he doesn’t,  _I_  will do anything to keep him from getting to you, which means following along with every command he gives me.”

“Don’t say that,” Grantaire said urgently, squeezing Enjolras’s hands. “You can’t think like that. I  _will_  find a way to get you out of this, and we  _will_  be fine. I promise you that.”

Enjolras just shook his head, dropping Grantaire’s hands. “No,” he said, somehow calm, despite the topic at hand. “No. Because you  _can’t_  promise me that.” Grantaire shook his head, eyes wide, and Enjolras swallowed hard and had to blink back sudden tears. “You told me, before, when this all began, that I had to go, that I had to run, and it’s my turn to tell you the same.” Grantaire tried to speak but Enjolras cut him off, pulling him close and kissing him, hard, more crushing their lips together than anything. “And it’s my turn to promise that I will find you one day. But for now, Grantaire, for my sake as much as yours, you  _have_  to run. Go back to the Magnons, stay there until the investigation concludes, and then leave. Get out, and don’t look back.”

Grantaire was not crying, not fully, though tears shone in his eyes. “Enjolras—” he tried, but Enjolras shook his head again and kissed him once more, gentler this time, the kiss saying everything he couldn’t.

“Go. Now.” He stepped away from Grantaire, expression almost pinched as he looked at him one last time. Then he turned his back on Grantaire, as much as it physically pained him to do so, to walk away from the man he loved, the man he had lost and just so recently found. But to stay would only make things infinitely worse.

Grantaire watched him go with tears stinging in his eyes. “I will find you!” he called at Enjolras’s retreating back. “I can’t run, not now. I will find you and I will take Tholomyès down and I will end this!”

Enjolras did not turn back. Enjolras did not look back at him. Enjolras kept walking even as his heart broke. And for the first time, Enjolras hoped that Grantaire was wrong.

* * *

 

“You’re late.”

Tholomyès was leaning against the wall of their agreed rendezvous place, his goons lingering in the alley behind him, and Enjolras met his gaze coolly. “And you have your funds. You don’t tell me how to do my job and I won’t tell you how to do yours.”

Tholomyès’s lips pursed slightly. “I know I have my funds — I got the alert on the transfer. But that was well over an hour ago, and the police have already arrived on the scene. Where have you been?”

It took more effort than Enjolras could ever explain to shrug and keep his expression neutral. “Staying low until I knew my exit route was safe. I had to improvise my plan slightly, and that meant I needed to alter my escape plan as well, which meant I had to stay away for longer than originally intended.”

Now Tholomyès outright scowled. “Yes, I heard what happened — you hit the Magnon boy in the head.”

“He was hardly a boy,” Enjolras said impatiently. “He was also determined to do something that I would not allow him to do.” He paused, his lip curling as he stared at Tholomyès. “But perhaps that’s what you’re most upset about: that I subverted what was your plan all along.”

Tholomyès shrugged, unconcerned. “My plan was only ever to ensure that I got the money.”

“And you did.” Enjolras’s tone turned brisk, and he straightened to meet Tholomyès’s gaze squarely. “I did everything you asked. And now I’m back. Anything else?”

Though Tholomyès still did not look fully convinced, he shrugged. “I suppose not.” He allowed himself a brief smile. “And I look forward to seeing what you come up with for the next assignment I give you.”

Enjolras allowed himself to relax, ever so slightly. He could not smile, not now, even when he was mentally clenching his fist in victory at conning Tholomyès in this, what may be the most important con of his life. “I’m sure you do,” he said instead, letting his bitterness creep into his tone, though his chin was up and his back was straighter than it had been in weeks as he followed Tholomyès back to the waiting car.

Grantaire was alive. Whatever else happened, whatever else came his way, Enjolras had that to hold on to. And he would do whatever he could, whatever Tholomyès put before him, to ensure that Grantaire stayed that way.

And when Blachevelle put the hood over Enjolras’s head for their drive back, for the first time, Enjolras allowed himself to smile, ever so slightly.


	10. Chapter 10

Combeferre glanced around his crowded but tidy apartment and sighed. He was looking for a flashdrive that he was fairly certain he had set down  _somewhere_ , but when half of one's apartment is taken up by books and the other half almost entirely by advanced computer equipment, it made the list of places something small like that could hide basically endless. He scowled and bent to look under his desk for the fourth time when a knock sounded on his door and he straightened too quickly, bumping his head on the bottom of his desk.

He rubbed the back of his head and glanced around, debating over whether to open the door. Combeferre’s apartment was unlisted, and wasn’t even in an apartment building. It was a repurposed section of unused loft, carefully erased from the building plans, the door hidden between two different fake walls. This meant one of two things — either one of his or Les Amis’ enemies had finally found him, or, perhaps slightly more likely, one of Les Amis had travelled across town to see him.

He hesitated for so long that whomever it was called in a strained, unfamiliar voice, “Combeferre, let me in!”

Well, enemy or friend, they knew who he was, so Combeferre crossed to the door, grabbing the heaviest book he could find on the way, just in case, and opened it, ready to swing but stopping when he saw Grantaire. “Christ, suit,” Combeferre muttered, lowering the book. “Didn’t I explain the secret knock to you already?”

Normally, Grantaire, who professed to believe in nothing, including Combeferre’s stranger conspiracy theories, would have laughed and joked, but not now. HIs expression was as grim as his tone of voice, and when he turned his head, Combeferre caught sight of tear tracks still drying on his cheeks. “I forgot,” Grantaire said quietly, and Combeferre reached out to grip his arm.

“What’s going on?” he asked urgently. “Did you see Enjolras? Did you get to speak with him? Have you come up with a plan, or—” Grantaire closed his eyes, his expression pained, and Combeferre bit off his words, instead pulling Grantaire into the apartment. “What happened?” he asked, in a gentler tone.

“I saw him,” Grantaire said, his voice numb, sitting in the chair that Combeferre led him to, staring straight ahead. “And he…he told me to run. He said that he had to keep working for Tholomyès to keep me safe.”

Combeferre sighed heavily and drew his hand across his face. “So we’re back to square one in how to go about getting Enjolras back.” He rocked back on his heels, his expression drawn, and asked abruptly, “Tea or wine?”

Grantaire glanced up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Which would you rather have, tea or wine?”

For a long moment, Grantaire didn’t say anything clearly torn between options, but then he said firmly, “Tea. We have to plan, and for better or for worse, I need my wits about me.”

Combeferre nodded and started towards the kitchen to put the kettle on, then paused. He reached out to touch Grantaire’s arm, his touch unusually gentle. “We’ll get him back,” he told Grantaire, his voice quiet but full of the conviction Grantaire had always lacked.

Grantaire jerked his head in a small nod and looked away, trying not to let Combeferre see the doubt that lingered on his face.

* * *

 

Knowing that Grantaire was alive, that Tholomyès could use him, could hurt him, could be tracking him down this instant should have been enough to keep Enjolras awake, but instead, Enjolras slept better than he had in weeks in the knowledge that somewhere, hopefully far,  _far_  away from here, Grantaire was  _alive_.

That feeling was enough to get him through the next few days of boredom as Tholomyès assumedly set up whatever Enjolras’s next heist would be, and was enough to keep him sleeping soundly even with the thought of how the Magnon family would be getting back all that money he stole from them.

He wasn’t proud of that — in his lower moments, of which there were plenty, sitting and wondering what Tholomyès was cooking up for him next, he could feel the guilt and self-loathing curl through his chest as he thought about what he had done and the repercussions of what he had done, wondering if the Magnons had already reached out to their contacts, reopened their channels, were bringing women and child slaves into the country as he sat there — but the fact of the matter was that, simply put, Grantaire was  _alive_.

And Enjolras was so fucked.

Whatever Tholomyès came up with next, whatever plan, whatever crime, Enjolras would do it. He would protest to keep his cover, but with Grantaire alive there was absolutely nothing that Enjolras wouldn’t do to keep it that way. At least, until—

“You want me to do _what_?”

Enjolras’s voice was surprised, with an edge of trepidation as he gaped up at Tholomyès, who smiled coldly. “I recognize this is a bit out of your wheelhouse, but your skills can be applied in new and innovative ways. And while heists are all very well and good, there’s always a chance of police involvement, which none of us want. Kidnappings, on the other hand, and ransoms — you won’t  _believe_  how often people refuse to bring the police in when you threaten the lives of their loved ones.”

“I won’t do it,” Enjolras said, though he felt a pit growing in his stomach. “Stealing, lying, all those I have no problem with. All of those I am  _very_  good at. All of those I can do and get you just as much money as—”

“Really?” Tholomyès sounded amused, and Enjolras flinched, because Tholomyès amused was never a good thing. “You can steal me as much money as we can get from the Gillenormand fortune? Because I somehow doubt that.”

If possible, Enjolras blanched even further at the name. “You want me to kidnap an old man—” he started, but Tholomyès just laughed and shook his head, tossing the file at him, his smile widening as Enjolras opened it and whispered, “You want me to kidnap Marius Pontmercy?” He looked up at Tholomyès, ashen. “That’s…not a good idea. He and I know each other. Even if the police don’t get involved, even if Gillenormand doesn’t call the cops or the FBI, Marius will know who I am, and he’s not a good enough friend to guarantee he won’t call the police when he’s returned.”

Tholomyès smirked. “Which is precisely why we won’t be returning him.” Enjolras spluttered incoherently and Tholomyès held up his hands almost placatingly. “It’s a dirty business we’re in. You know as well as I the results of your actions against the Magnons. How many women and children do you think they’ve killed trying to smuggle them into this country, and how many more will die at the hands of those who purchase them?” He shook his head, mock-sadly. “A dirty business we’re in, indeed. But there’s money to be made, and if people die one way or the other, at the end of the day, with that much money in my pocket, I find myself sleeping easily.”

Enjolras licked his lips, trying to come up with an argument, with something that would convince Tholomyès not to go through with this, because he _couldn’t_. His personal feelings about Pontmercy aside — and Enjolras was not the man’s biggest fan, for a variety of reasons, though they claimed tentative friendship — even the fact that by kidnapping him he would be leading Pontmercy to his death like sheep to a slaughter aside, Marius was close friends with Courfeyrac, who would almost certainly get involved if Marius were to disappear, and with him, Les Amis, and with them…

Though Enjolras had perhaps deluded himself over the past few days that Grantaire had left, had actually taken Enjolras’s command to heart and run, he knew Grantaire far too well to actually believe that. If Marius was taken, if Courfeyrac got involved, Grantaire would as well, even if there was no hint that Enjolras had something to do with it. It was just who Grantaire  _was_  — when someone needed help, Grantaire was there for them. But by doing so, by being who he was and exercising one of the things about him that Enjolras loved most, Grantaire would put himself in Tholomyès’s crosshairs. _Enjolras_  would be putting Grantaire into Tholomyès’s crosshairs.

So he did the only thing he could do — he lifted his chin, meeting Tholomyès’s eyes squarely, and said in as confident a voice as he could muster, “I won’t do it. I’m a con-man and a thief and a criminal, and I will answer for that, but I’m not a kidnapper, and I’m sure as hell not a murderer.”

For the briefest of moments, Tholomyès looked surprised, and Enjolras’s heart leapt, thinking that he might just give in, but then his expression closed, and he shrugged. “Fine,” Tholomyès said, gesturing at Blachevelle, who cracked his knuckles like a villain from a bad movie, “have it your way. We’ll see how quickly you change your mind.”

He turned on heel and left as Blachevelle closed in on Enjolras, grinning as his fist connected with Enjolras’s stomach.

* * *

 

“We have to do something,” Grantaire said for the umpteenth time from where he sat on Combeferre’s armchair, days later but still just as frustrated.

“We know,” Courfeyrac said, as patiently as he could, though he looked over at Combeferre, his brow furrowing. “The crimes Tholomyès forced Enjolras to commit are escalating. Smash and grab to long con? That’s a big leap. Which makes it stand to reason that the crime he’s forced to commit next may be something that he can’t come back from.”

Joly nodded and sat down on the arm of the couch. “Or worse, something that Enjolras will refuse to do, because who  _knows_  what the consequences will be.”

Grantaire laughed dryly. “I know what the consequences will be. They’ll start with Enjolras — you know Tholomyès isn’t above that. And if he doesn’t break from that—”

“ _When_  he doesn’t break from that,” Bossuet interrupted quietly. “Enjolras is made of stronger stuff than that.”

Though Grantaire glanced up at him, he didn’t contradict him. “When Enjolras doesn’t break from that, Tholomyès will turn his attention to you. He knows Enjolras’s associates, and he’ll work his way through you all one by one. But before that happens, he’ll find out that I’m still alive. And then he’ll do to me whatever he can to make Enjolras cooperate.”

Jehan made a pained noise from where he sat huddled on the couch. “Wouldn’t it be easier just to kill Enjolras?” he burst.

Courfeyrac patted his arm gently. “You might think so, but that’s not how Tholomyès sees it. Hurting people, torturing them, even killing them, doesn’t matter, so long as he gets what he’s after. And Enjolras is easily one of the most talented con-men of this generation — Grantaire can tell you as much — meaning he can get money in ways that others just can’t. Look at the Magnons — I can’t think of anyone else in the game who could have infiltrated that quickly and done what he did.”

“None of which changes the fact that at the moment, Enjolras could be being beaten into a bloody pulp.”

Grantaire’s words were perhaps more curt than necessary, and they all flinched, except for Combeferre, who just looked up from where he was hunched over his computer to say in quiet rebuke, “Grantaire.”

They all fell into an uneasy silence until Courfeyrac asked Combeferre, trying to sound bright and positive, “How is it coming over there?”

Combeferre sighed. “About as well as we could hope. My algorithm is connecting shell companies to Tholomyès Industries to see if we can find a company that purchased something in the area where they could be holding Enjolras. And in the interim, I am looking into Tholomyès’s personal and professional financial records for the past five years to see if we have an angle there.”

Grantaire sighed as well and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Even if we find where Enjolras is being held, that doesn’t  _help_  us. We don’t have the manpower to launch any kind of rescue operation, not when Tholomyès has access to almost infinite resources.”

Joly frowned. “Couldn’t you contact the FBI?”

“How?” Grantaire shot back, turning to look up at him. “With Fameuil leading the investigation in the White Collar unit, I can’t even ask Bahorel and Feuilly to help, nevermind the fact that it would implicate them.”

Combeferre cracked his knuckles and muttered, “Enjolras was once involved with some undercover FBI agents, but they’re out on the west coast, so probably can’t coordinate anything.”

Though Grantaire was half-tempted to ask for the story behind that, he settled for shaking his head and telling Joly, “So yeah. The FBI is out.”

“Did someone say something about the FBI?” Bahorel asked from the doorway as Feuilly grinned at them from over his shoulder.

Grantaire was on his feet before he even realized it. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice sounding far away. “You can’t be involved in this. You shouldn’t even  _be_  here.”

“Good to see you, too, boss,” Feuilly said easily. “Glad to see you — you know, alive. But thankfully, you’re technically not our boss anymore.”

Grantaire just stared at him. “No shit, Sherlock. I’m  _dead_.”

Bahorel waved a dismissive hand. “Well, sure. But besides that. Javert’s temporarily reassigned us to our own unit in Counterintelligence, which means we’re not under Fameuil’s purview. And since he would need a federal warrant to tail FBI agents not under his command, we feel pretty safe in coming here.”

For a long moment, Grantaire still just stared, then he crossed to them and hugged them both. “I’m so fucking glad you’re here,” he muttered. “Even if you two are fucking idiots for letting yourselves get dragged into this.”

Feuilly chuckled and thumped Grantaire on the back. “What can we say? We’re slightly fond of you.” He sobered up quickly as he took a step back. “But seriously, now that we’re outside of Fameuil’s control, we know that we could help, and we also know that we’ll face the consequences for it.”

Grantaire nodded and was about to speak, when Combeferre said in an odd voice, “Speaking of Fameuil…Grantaire, you’re going to want to see this.”

* * *

 

If it wasn’t for the fact that, per Tholomyès’s orders, Blachevelle was purposefully avoiding his face, Enjolras was sure that both his eyes would be swollen shut by now, and he would probably be regretting the amount of money his parents spent on braces.

These thoughts were the only thing that kept him from blacking out from the unbearable pain blooking through his chest and torso, arms and legs, from the repeated blows Blachevelle was landing on him. He assumed in the small, still rational part of his brain, that he had to stop sometime soon, if only because he had run out of places to beat.

Certainly not because he was afraid of doing real damage, since Enjolras was pretty sure that some of his ribs and possibly one of his legs was broken.

But the blows didn’t stop coming, and Enjolras closed his eyes, hoping that he would just pass out soon, no matter the thoughts of what worse things Blachevelle might do to him while unconscious, because the alternative was that he might actually break, and he would never forgive himself if he did. At some point, Tholomyès came back into the room, his voice dispassionate as he asked Enjolras, “Well? Have you changed you mind yet?”

“Please,” Enjolras croaked, trying for the last time, even if he wasn’t even sure what he was going to ask.

Blachevelle responded by slamming his fist into Enjolras’s already broken ribs, and Enjolras couldn’t stifle his cry at the impact.

At that moment, the wall of the building seemed to explode, covering both of them in dust, and Enjolras could barely make sense of what was happening as SWAT and FBI agents stormed into the room, shouting at Tholomyès and Blachevelle, making them get down on the ground and snapping handcuffs onto them while, to Enjolras’s utter shock and confusion, Bahorel knelt at his side, conspicuously not touching him. “We’re gonna get you out of here,” he told Enjolras reassuringly. “We’re gonna take you to the hospital. You’re going to be fine.”

Enjolras closed his eyes again, but this time in relief. He tried to reach out for Bahorel, but his hand did nothing more than twitch slightly. “Grantaire?” he croaked, feeling the blackness mercifully starting to take him, but needing to know that Grantaire was safe.

But Bahorel just looked at him with something unreadable in his expression. Was it pity? Was it concern? Enjolras didn’t know, knew only the words Bahorel told him. “Enjolras — Grantaire is dead.”

Enjolras tried in vain to stay awake to ask, to clarify — did Bahorel not know? Or did he know something Enjolras didn’t? — but he couldn’t fend off the blackness any longer and surrendered himself to it, figuring one way or another, he might just see Grantaire again.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably only two more chapters to go!

Cynical though he may have been, professed atheist though he may also have been, excellent operational strategist though he undoubtedly was, even Grantaire was known to utter a prayer or two right before an operation just to make sure that everything went smoothly. Now, though, sitting in Combeferre’s apartment and waiting to hear back from Feuilly and Bahorel on the status of their takedown of Tholomyès’s suspected warehouse, an operation that he neither coordinated nor had any say in, Grantaire felt torn between as many prayers as he could manage just in hopes that they would find Enjolras and that everything would go to plan and the faith — ironic as the term may be for him — he had in his team.

He still wasn’t sold on using the FBI, though Bahorel convinced him that the channels they were using were not likely to be monitored by Fameuil, for one, and were also technically legal, for another. Javert had done well by transferring Feuilly and Bahorel to Counterintelligence, which had slightly different requirements for their own operations. All Bahorel had to do was flag the warehouse as a potential danger site, and just like that, they had a fully armed operations team at their command.

Grantaire only hoped that it would be enough.

When the phone rang, he sat bolt upright from where he had been slumped on Combeferre’s couch, looking around wildly for the phone before remembering that it wasn’t his cellphone ringing (his mobile phone was still in FBI custody following his ‘death’), but rather Combeferre’s, and turned instead to watch Combeferre, his hands gripping the arm of the couch so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“Yes?” Combeferre said tersely, in lieu of any other greeting, as if he was just as stressed as Grantaire — and why wouldn’t he be? Enjolras was his best friend, and Combeferre had been kidnapped by Tholomyès and knew even better than Grantaire what he was capable of. “And?”

He listened to whatever the person on the phone was saying in silence for a long moment as Grantaire stared at him, his fingers curling convulsively against the couch as he wrestled with the desire to spring forward and grab the phone from Combeferre so that he could just hear the news himself. “Oh, I see,” Combeferre said, and Grantaire seethed —  _what_  did he see? “Thank you.”

“Well?” Grantaire demanded, as soon as Combeferre hung up.

Combeferre sighed but smiled at him, though there was strained aspect to that smile. “They got to Enjolras in time, and they’ve arrested Tholomyès and Blachevelle.”

Grantaire let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, his shoulders slumped in relief. “Oh, thank god,” he said, before realizing — “Wait, what do you mean, they got to him ‘in time’?”

Combeferre’s smile faded slightly. “When the FBI and SWAT breached the building, they interrupted Tholomyès and Blachevelle as they were or had just been beating Enjolras. It appears that your prediction may have proven correct, and they wanted him to do something he was unwilling or unable to do. As such, he was pretty severely beaten by the time Bahorel and Feuilly got to him and passed out shortly thereafter.” Combeferre held his hands up as Grantaire swore and started forward, expression blazing. “But he’s alright. Do you understand me? He’s going to be fine.”

Shaking his head slowly, Grantaire allowed himself a brief moment for composure before speaking. “He’s at the hospital?” he asked quietly, and Combeferre nodded, watching Grantaire closely. “Then that’s where I’m headed to.”

Grantaire turned to leave but Combeferre reached out to grab his arm. “You can’t do that,” he said, both his grip and his tone surprisingly firm.

“Let go of me,” Grantaire growled, trying to wrench his arm out of Combeferre’s grip. “You don’t get to tell me what I can and cannot do, not when Enjolras is lying in some hospital bed, beaten within an inch of his life. Let  _go_!”

“No.” Combeferre’s voice was quieter than Grantaire’s, but no less determined. “Because I can’t let you do that.” Grantaire swore again and turned on him, but Combeferre didn’t flinch away. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re supposed to be dead, and a dead man can’t just walk into the hospital.”

Grantaire stopped struggling, though he still glared at Combeferre. “That hardly matter now,” he said through clenched teeth. “Tholomyès is arrested. My entire reasoning for faking my death is out of the picture. If I come back now or come back later, it  _doesn’t matter_.”

“It does,” Combeferre said steadily. “Especially since there’s an opportunity here for you to not come back at all.”

For a long moment, Grantaire just stared at Combeferre, stony-faced. Then he asked quietly, “What are you talking about?”

Combeferre shrugged. “If you stay dead, this could be an opportunity for you to start over. You can take Enjolras with you and just leave everything behind. No more FBI, no more electronic monitoring for Enjolras, no more worrying about other potential dangers in your line of work or in his. It’d be a fresh start.” Grantaire shook his head slowly, and Combeferre continued, more forcefully, “What is there for you if you go back? You could get yourself arrested or fired. Enjolras is facing the possibility of more jail time. There is nothing keeping you here!”

“There’s our friends,” Grantaire said quietly, his expression carefully blank.

Combeferre snorted. “We’d find a way to keep in touch. Besides, how sustainable do you think this whole tentative arrangement between Les Amis and the FBI is, anyway?”

Grantaire just shook his head and looked away. “I love Enjolras,” he said softly, carefully, clearly picking his words with care. “And I would love a chance to be free together from everything that chains us.” He looked back up at Combeferre, expression steely. “But I’m also a man of honor, and that means that I will take what consequences come my way for my crimes.”

Combeferre dropped his hand from Grantaire’s arm, an almost hurt look flashing across his face before being replaced with something more neutral. “After all this time, suit, have you still not figured out the difference between being a man of honor and being a criminal?”

“Maybe I haven’t,” Grantaire said honestly. “Maybe I never will.” He looked carefully at Combeferre and added softly, “But then again, maybe I have.” He shook his head and backed towards the door. “But that doesn’t really matter. Because at the moment, the honorable thing would be me at Enjolras’s side, and I have to do that. Consequences be damned.”

And with that, he left to face whatever consequences he had to, as long as he could see Enjolras again.

* * *

 

Enjolras woke slowly, blinking back into consciousness and the feeling of someone lightly running their fingers through his hair and humming off-key. He would have known that humming anywhere, and so sighed contentedly and whispered, “Grantaire.”

The humming instantly stopped and Grantaire’s face swam into view, smiling down at him, though the hand thankfully remained in his hair. “Good morning, beautiful. Or should I say, good afternoon.”

“Am I alive?” Enjolras asked, because Grantaire was here, and he somehow wasn’t in any pain, and while he couldn’t quite be sure, he was pretty sure heaven was supposed to be like that.

Grantaire made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob and shook his head slowly. “Yes, despite your best efforts to the contrary, you are still very much alive.”

Enjolras struggled to sit up and winced as the pain in his side flared. So apparently, he  _was_  alive, and that meant— “Oh, thank god,” he breathed, trying to reach out for Grantaire, though his arms didn’t seem to be working. “You’re alive!”

“Of course I’m alive,” Grantaire said, giving him a funny look. “How much morphine do they have you on? Or do you not remember seeing me after the Magnon incident? Because the doctor said to be on the lookout for any signs of concussion or possible brain damage, and—”

It took so much more effort than Enjolras was used to, but he managed to lift his hand and set it on top of Grantaire’s, and Grantaire fell silent when he did. “Bahorel told me you were dead. At the time, I wasn’t sure what he meant, if he knew you were really alive or if something else had happened to you, and I wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind to ask him.” His hand started to slip off of Grantaire’s, and Grantaire grabbed it, holding it in both of his. “But the morphine makes a lot of sense right now.” He tried to glance down at himself but couldn’t see anything but the thin blanket covering him. “How badly am I hurt?”

Grantaire shrugged, trying to sound cavalier, though his expression was strained. “A couple of broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, internal bruising, some internal bleeding that required surgery, ruptured spleen also requiring surgery, fractured leg…I could go on, but I think those are the main ones.”

Enjolras nodded slowly, his eyes not leaving Grantaire’s face, so glad to just be able to see him, alive and well. Mostly well, anyway, since if Enjolras’s eyes weren’t mistaken, there appeared to be a bruise beginning to darken on Grantaire’s cheek. “What happened to you?”

Shrugging again, Grantaire made himself busy fussing with Enjolras’s pillow, though Enjolras thought he caught sight of a blush rising in Grantaire’s cheeks. “I, uh, I got in a bit of a scuffle with the police officer outside your hospital room. They didn’t want to let me in to see you, and obviously, I wasn’t going to stand for that, so…It’s not big deal.”

“But why wouldn’t they—” Enjolras started, then stopped, realizing. “Of course. Because you’re supposed to be dead.” He shook his head and looked almost pleadingly at Grantaire. “You shouldn’t be here. You need to, to — I don’t know, to run or something.”

Grantaire shook his head, though he allowed himself a small, wry smile. “I really wish you’d stop having that reaction every time you see me. A man is bound to get the wrong impression.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and winced, because rolling his eyes shouldn’t be thing that hurt and yet, somehow, it did. “Seriously,” he said, his voice stronger and clearer than it had been since he woke up, “you have to go. If they find out about you and what you did—”

“Then they will find out,” Grantaire said steadily, squeezing Enjolras’s hand. “My place is here, with you. And I’m not going anywhere. Not now that I’ve finally gotten you back. I’m not going anywhere.”

There were many things Enjolras wanted to say to that, to protest, to try to convince Grantaire to leave, but truthfully, as much as his body hurt and would only hurt more when the morphine wore off, as worried as he was about what would happen to Grantaire, he was too excited to have Grantaire back with him to do anything but allow Grantaire to kiss him, softly and sweetly and perfectly.

It was a perfect moment, Grantaire’s fingers running through Enjolras’s hair, his touch reverent and careful, even if Enjolras’s head was the least injured part of his entire body, and Enjolras just reaching out as best he could to grasp whatever part of Grantaire he could reach, reveling in the feeling of just being together.

And it was ruined by the door slamming open and Agent Fameuil storming into the room with three armed FBI agents. “Agent Grantaire,” Fameuil said loudly, glaring at the pair of them. “You are under arrest for faking your own death, filing a false police report, and hindering an official FBI investigation. Cuff him, gentlemen.”

Grantaire didn’t even protest as one of the FBI agents hauled him up out of his seat, though his expression was pained, more at having to leave Enjolras’s side than anything. “What’s going on?” Enjolras asked loudly, as loudly as he could manage anyway, staring wildly from Fameuil, whom he had not yet officially met, to Grantaire. “Grantaire, what—”

“If I were you, I would be quiet,” Fameuil told him snidely, something triumphant in his tone. “You’re not off the hook yet, either. We have evidence of you committing felony larceny and assault, which means you’re going back to prison, Mr. Enjolras, and this time, you’re not getting out on the FBI’s dime.”

Enjolras just shook his head. “Grantaire!” he said, loudly, trying to get his attention. “Grantaire, I—”

“I love you,” Grantaire said quietly, looking over from where he was being cuffed. “I love you and I am unashamed of anything that I did to get you back when the FBI wasn’t doing anything.” He directed the last part to the room at large, focusing his attention on Fameuil, who didn’t look impressed. “And as an interesting segue, while lying low and pretending to be dead, I discovered a fascinating reason  _why_  the FBI wasn’t doing anything. Tell me, Fameuil, how long have you been receiving money from Tholomyès Industries?”

Fameuil sneered. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

Grantaire shook his head. “Of course you do. You’re been getting kickbacks from them for  _years_  as you steered investigation after investigation away from Felix Tholomyès and his thugs. I found direct evidence linking you to Tholomyès’s holdings, and—”

“And absolutely none of that in admissible in a court of law,” Fameuil interrupted, something both savage and triumphant in his voice. “You may think that you’ve circumvented the law by pretending to be dead and enlisting the help of criminals, but the only thing you’ve done is condemn yourself and your lover, and in the process, jeopardize a case against Felix Tholomyès.” He leaned in, his eyes gleaming, and told Grantaire in an undertone, “Meaning Tholomyès won after all.”

“Is that so?” Agent Javert said from the doorway, where he was watching Fameuil with a neutral expression. “I came here hoping to congratulate one of my confidential informants on helping bring down one of the biggest crime bosses of our lifetime and instead I find one of my best agents in cuffs, and from the sound of it, said CI possibly about to be arrested as well.”

Fameuil turned back to Javert, his sneer smoothing into something more neutral. “Agent Javert,” he acknowledged coldly. “This is beyond your jurisdiction.”

“Actually, it isn’t.” Javert strolled into the room, reaching into his suit jacket to pull out a folded piece of paper that he handed to Fameuil. “You see, while Grantaire’s evidence may be inadmissible in court, it was more than enough for a judge to sign off on a warrant to search all of Tholomyès’s financial records. And we found some very suspicious linkages between you and Tholomyès.” Fameuil spluttered incoherently, but Javert ignored him, instead pulling out his own cuffs and spinning Fameuil around to cuff him. “Agent Fameuil, you are under arrest for aiding a criminal organization, hindering an FBI investigation, endangering the life of an FBI asset—”

As Javert continued listing the various charges against Fameuil, Grantaire yanked free from the FBI agent barely holding onto him and returned to Enjolras’s bedside to kiss him once more. Enjolras just reached out to touch the cuffs still on Grantaire’s wrists. “I could get used to these,” he muttered.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Shut up,” he growled.

“Nope,” Enjolras whispered, kissing Grantaire before adding, far too delightedly, “Criminal.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go!

The look on Grantaire’s face was pure concentration as he looked critically at the important artwork in front of him. He took a deep breath, and one final look, before pronouncing solemnly, “There. Done.”

Enjolras looked down at the reproduction of “Liberty Leading the People” that Grantaire had just painstakingly painted onto his cast and grinned. “It’s perfect. Come here.” He pulled him down and kissed him. “I love you.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes but blushed slightly. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said gruffly. “You’re just saying that in hopes that I take it easy on you when we play Monopoly later.”

“Excuse me, but the official record for the ‘Suspension from the FBI/Hospital Recuperation Monopoly Marathon’ reflects that I have actually beaten you more times in Monopoly than you have beaten me,” Enjolras said primly.

“Clearly there’s a bit of a capitalist in you after all,” Grantaire shot backing, grinning when Enjolras growled and quickly moving away from the hospital bed before Enjolras could hit him.

It had been a long few weeks, but thankfully, Grantaire was able to spend almost all of it at Enjolras’s side. As punishment for his role in letting Enjolras get away and then faking his own death, Grantaire had been suspended from work for three weeks. But as far as punishments went, Grantaire was pretty sure Javert actually meant this as a bit of a gift, since he was not only suspended  _with_  pay but was conveniently suspended for the estimated amount of time Enjolras would be in the hospital. Granted, it marred Grantaire’s otherwise fairly exemplary service record, but he could live with that, especially since Javert had also ensured that Enjolras would not be charged in connection with the crimes he committed under Tholomyès.

He could live with a lot of things if it meant spending time with the man he loved, though he admittedly would rather it wasn’t spent in the hospital.

Still, Enjolras was in remarkably good spirits, and he was getting stronger every day and healing quickly, though he had been trying to push himself further than the doctors and Grantaire deemed prudent. Painting on Enjolras’s cast had not only been a good use of time, but had also been a convenient way to keep Enjolras off his feet.

Enjolras was still grinning a little stupidly at the painting Grantaire had done, and he told Grantaire excitedly, “You know, this painting is one of my favorites not just for its subject matter—”

“Or because it’s one of the first paintings you ever forged,” Grantaire interjected wryly.

“Right,” Enjolras said, not letting the comment derail his excitement. “It also has a fascinating history. It was originally purchased by the French government but was returned to the painter after a small rebellion in June 1832. Did I ever tell you about that rebellion? Because it’s a really cool bit of history surrounding the funeral of General Lamarque, and—”

“And you’re a nerd,” Grantaire interrupted, delighted, and leaned in to kiss Enjolras. “I love you.”

“Gentlemen, as much as I hate to interrupt, I’m here to set both of you free.”

Grantaire and Enjolras looked up to see Joly leaning against the doorframe, grinning at them both. “Jol—” Grantaire started, before remembering that Joly was currently pretending to be a licensed doctor at the hospital in large part to keep an eye on Enjolras and in smaller part to make sure certain records of Enjolras’s carefully disappeared in case they fell into the wrong hands. “I mean, Dr. Laigle, do you have Enjolras’s release forms?”

Joly nodded and tossed the forms onto the bed. “All we need is an acknowledgment that you will continue seeing your personal physician once you’re out of the hospital, waive all responsibility by the hospital for anything after you leave, etc., etc., and you are free as a bird.”

“Well, not quite,” Enjolras said, nodding down at the electronic tracking anklet that had been placed on his non-broken leg. He raised an eyebrow at Joly. “And what personal physician did you put in my records that I would be seeing?”

Joly blinked innocently at him. “Why, a good friend of mine, of course, and an excellent doctor. Dr. Musichetta. He’s a great doctor, works a lot like me, looks a lot like me, may actually be me using a different assumed name…”

Both Enjolras and Grantaire laughed, and Enjolras shook his head. “I can’t believe Combeferre went through all the trouble of hacking in to license two aliases with medical licenses and didn’t just reinstate yours.”

Grantaire made a disparaging noise. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said with a sigh, looking up at the ceiling. “Your criminal activities are best discussed as hypotheticals or in vague terms around me, remember? Still FBI, even if I’m on suspension for one more day.” Still, he winked at Joly, who winked back. “And speaking of suspension, I’m not entirely sure going back to the FBI counts as being ‘freed’.”

Joly gasped dramatically. “What’s this? The suit is beginning to realize the stifling chains of bureaucracy?”

“Firstly, only Combeferre is allowed to call me ‘suit’, and only because he won’t stop,” Grantaire said sourly. “Secondly, it’s not like that, it’s just — it’s been nice getting to spend so much time with Enjolras. And I’m going to miss seeing him until he’s ready to come into work.”

Enjolras made a face. “Kindly don’t remind me that I still have to go back to the FBI.”

Grantaire laughed and kissed Enjolras’s cheek. “Aw, babe, don’t be like that. Only, what — four more years? — until you’re done. That time will fly, you’ll see — provided you don’t have any  _other_  criminals out for you that I don’t know about.”

“I promise that the only criminal still out for me is the US Government,” Enjolras said coolly, though he smiled and winked at Grantaire to show that he was joking — mostly. But as Grantaire turned to Joly to talk the details of Enjolras’s release from the hospital, Enjolras felt the smile slip off his face at the prospect of returning to the FBI.

* * *

 

The alarm went off and Grantaire groaned and rolled over to slap it silent. Enjolras wrapped his arms around Grantaire’s waist and nuzzled the back of his neck. “Don’t,” he said, his voice scratchy from sleep.

“I have to,” Grantaire sighed, pulling away from Enjolras reluctantly. “And you’re not supposed to be lying on your side while you’re still recovering, you heard what Joly said.”

Enjolras groaned but obediently rolled onto his back. “You didn’t listen to his temporary prohibition on sex last night.”

Grantaire smirked at him. “Yeah, but that’s because I was the one doing all the work. And you can _not_  tell me that you’re complaining about that, or that you didn’t enjoy myself and my flagrant violation of the rules.”

“Oh, I enjoyed that most of all,” Enjolras said, smirking as well. “I’m loving the fact that you’ve gotten to be quite the little rulebreaker.” He propped himself up on his elbows, managing not to wince as he did. “So why not break the rules again and play hooky?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Because there’s a difference between breaking a few doctors’ suggestions and skipping out on work, especially since it’s my first day back.”

Enjolras pouted, then shrugged, sitting up. “Fine, if you won’t break the rules, then I will. I want to come into work with you.”

“What, why?” Grantaire asked, frowning.

“I want to talk to Agent Javert about something,” Enjolras said, sliding out of bed and heading to the closet. “I promise I won’t do anything strenuous, nothing that could damage my supposedly fragile insides or anything like that. All I want is to go in, have a brief conversation, and maybe get a cup of that vile sludge that the FBI calls coffee. Ok?”

Grantaire sighed, and Enjolras smiled, realizing victory. “Fine.” He crossed over to Enjolras and kissed him before telling him, “But no coffee. Caffeine might have an adverse effect on your meds.”

* * *

 

“Enjolras,” Javert said, surprised, leaning back in his desk chair. “I didn’t expect to see you here today, especially since I know for a fact you’ve not been cleared by a doctor to return to work.”

Enjolras shrugged and smiled slightly. “Well, I wanted to see Agent Grantaire off for his first day back on the job.” His expression turned more serious. “But I also wanted to discuss something important with you.”

Javert nodded, though his brow was furrowed, and he gestured at the seat in front of his desk. “Please.”

After sitting down, Enjolras was quiet for a long moment as he struggled to formulate what exactly he wanted to say. Finally, he sighed and looked at Javert. “These past few weeks — months, really — have given me a lot of time to think about what I do here, especially in comparison to what I used to do. And the fact is that what I do here is very, very similar to what I used to do.”

“For good reason,” Javert pointed out. “The role of a Confidential Informant is to take your skills and use them for the right side of the law.”

Enjolras sighed again. “But it’s more than that. Working here, doing this work particularly, the only thing is serves as is a reminder of my past…indiscretions. And it’s made me realize that I can’t keep living this way, one foot in the past and one here. I want to be something more than a con man, even if I’m conning for the right side of the law now.”

Javert nodded slowly. “What are you saying?”

Enjolras took a deep breath. “I’m saying that I can’t work for the FBI anymore.”

For a long moment, Javert was silent, then he shook his head. “I acknowledge the position you probably find yourself in, especially given your recent ordeal — and I wanted to again offer you my personal apologies for the role the FBI played in all of that — but what you’re suggesting is impossible.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asked.

“I mean that if you no longer wish to work for the FBI, then you will have to go back to jail to finish your sentence.” Enjolras was silent, his expression resigned, and Javert frowned. “You knew that, didn’t you? You want to return to jail?”

Enjolras shook his head. “No. I don’t  _want_  to return to jail, but if it’s my only option, then it’s the option I’m going to take.”

Javert examined him for a long moment, then shrugged. “I have to admit, I cannot say I really trusted you when this whole thing began to make the right choices. And I’ll admit that I still don’t trust you — it’s not in my nature. But you are doing the right thing by turning yourself in instead of trying to run.”

The words ‘like you tried to before’ were left unsaid, and Enjolras half-smiled. “And I appreciate that,” he said. He stood and asked, “Do you want to do this now?”

“I think that would be best,” Javert said, standing as well as he grabbed his handcuffs from his desk. “If you can put your hands behind your back…”

Suddenly, the door open and Grantaire strolled in, grinning. “Enjolras, I was—” He froze in the doorway to Javert’s office, staring at Javert as he was about to handcuff Enjolras. “What the fuck is going on here? He wasn’t charged with anything related to the kidnapping!”

“Grantaire, don’t,” Enjolras said quietly, while Javert shook his head and told him, “This isn’t related to the kidnapping. Enjolras has remanded himself into my custody because he no longer wishes to work for the FBI.”

Grantaire stared at Enjolras, who wouldn’t meet his gaze, before switching his glare to Javert. “And, what, that means you’re just going to  _arrest_  him and send him back to jail? Javert, be reasonable, you can’t—”

“I have to,” Javert told him quietly. “It’s in the terms of his release to the FBI. If he doesn’t fulfill the terms, he’s to be returned to jail to serve out the rest of his time.”

Shaking his head, Grantaire started to protest, but Enjolras cut him off, turning to Javert to ask quietly, “Can you give us a moment?” When Javert frowned, Enjolras added, a little desperately, “Please?”

Javert sighed but nodded stiffly and stepped back, letting Enjolras cross over to Grantaire and drag him outside of Javert’s office. “What the  _fuck_  do you think you’re doing?” Grantaire demanded. “Letting yourself get dragged back to jail, after all we’ve been through? Did you even give an  _ounce_  of thought to what it would  _do_  to me to—”

“Yes, I did!” Enjolras said, expression stony. “I gave it even more consideration than my own feelings on the matter because I love you. And while you may not believe it, I’m doing this as much for you as I’m doing it for me.” Grantaire snorted, but Enjolras continued doggedly. “I love you. You know that. But our relationship is — and has always been — complicated by my past and who I’ve been. There’s a lot of good that I still want to do in this world, but I’m limited by being here and what I can do in the mile radius between this office and Courfeyrac’s house, and our relationship is limited by that same radius.”

Grantaire nodded slowly, though his expression didn’t change. “But why jail? Why not just wait out the rest of your sentence in the actual, literal luxury of Courfeyrac’s, with me there?”

“Because it may very well kill me.” Grantaire rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I’m serious. You know how I feel about the FBI and government in general, and the knowledge that my forced crimes under Tholomyès could have been prevented had the FBI agent in charge of the investigation not been corrupt didn’t really help matters.”

Now Grantaire looked understanding, but there was an edge to his voice when he asked quietly, “But what about me?”

Enjolras gave him a half-smile and reached out to grab his hands. “You are the exception. And you always have been, to every rule I ever made for myself. But I don’t want you to have to be an exception anymore, and the only way that I can see to do that is to get myself out of this situation, even if that means going back to jail. That way I can live with myself — and with you.”

Grantaire looked down and swallowed hard before nodding. “Then if you really need to do this, I won’t stop you.” He squeezed Enjolras’s hands. “I will miss you like crazy, though. Especially since I  _just_  got you back.”

“But just think,” Enjolras said, pulling him close, “when all this is over, you can have me for good. And we can finally leave the island of Manhattan. Maybe go on vacation for the first time, to London or Paris…”

Grantaire’s face lit up. “Paris! I’ve always wanted to go to the Louvre.”

Enjolras winced. “Well, maybe not the Louvre. I, uh, I’m not actually allowed in there anymore.”

“Did you steal a painting from the Louvre?” Grantaire yelped.

“How about the Musée d’Orsay?” Enjolras said hastily. “I’ve heard great things.”

Grantaire sighed and shook his head. “We’ll talk about it later.” He leaned in and kissed Enjolras, then sighed. “Though I really wish you had waited on this whole thing until you were 100% better, because now I’m just going to worry about how the prisoner doctors are treating you.”

Enjolras shrugged. “A little birdy told me that Dr. Musichetta might ask for reassignment in the New York federal prison, so…”

Sighing again, Grantaire said wryly, “Why am I not surprised?” He took a step back. “Well, if you’re really going to do this…”

“I am.” He squeezed Grantaire’s hand. “And I’m glad for your support.” Together, they went back into Javert’s office, and Enjolras squared his shoulders before telling Javert, “I’m ready to surrender myself to your custody.”

Javert sighed and stood. “I really wish there was something else I could do,” he said, more to Grantaire than to Enjolras. “Unfortunately, my hands are tied.”

“But thankfully,” a voice said from the doorway, and all three turned to look to see who it was, “mine are not.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter!
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who has read and supported this AU through its various phases! I've enjoyed writing this whole AU quite a bit, and I think this is a good ending that goes full circle to everything that's happened, and hopefully you agree!

Javert sighed and stood, grabbing his handcuffs and moving around to where Enjolras stood, head held high as he awaited his fate. “I really wish there was something I could do,” Javert said, more to Grantaire than Enjolras. “Unfortunately, my hands are tied.”

“But thankfully,” a voice said from the doorway, and all three turned as one to see who it was. “Mine are not.”

“Senator Valjean?” Enjolras and Grantaire asked in unison, gaping, while Javert made a face that seemed torn between a scowl and a smile before asking sternly, “Senator Valjean, what are you doing here? Can the FBI do something for you?”

Valjean strode into the room, smiling at both Grantaire and Enjolras, who still seemed shocked, before transferring his smile to Javert. “Actually, in this case, I don’t think it’s a matter of what the FBI can do for me, but rather what I can do for the FBI.”

Though Javert decided on the scowl, he nonetheless set his handcuffs down on the desk and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “And what, pray tell, can you do for the FBI?”

“For starters, I can take Mr. Enjolras here off the FBI’s hands. Permanently.”

Enjolras and Grantaire glanced at each other as a small smile flitted across Javert’s face. Slowly, he crossed to his desk and sat down. “A transfer,” he said, nodding. “Of course. I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose that you have a judge on board already?”

Valjean’s smile seemed more like a smirk as he nodded as well. “Of course. Order papers signed and waiting your approval only.”

Grantaire cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt,” he said, in a tone that suggested the exact opposite, “but what the actual hell is going on here? A transfer? Taking Enjolras off the FBI hands? What are you talking about?”

“We’re talking, Agent Grantaire, about a slightly more experimental branch of the work release program," Valjean said, and Javert snorted.

“Yes, more experimental because no one actually expected elected federal officials to want to hire convicted felons to work in their offices.”

Valjean shot Javert a look, but Enjolras suddenly brightened with understanding. “I heard about that,” he said, a little tentatively. “A trial program, for white collar criminals in particular who had specific areas of expertise. Much like being a confidential consultant, but more policy-related and a lot less, well, filled with borderline illegal activities. But I thought it failed because convicted felons are not allowed to work for the federal government?”

He directed that question as Valjean, who smiled. “Actually, a felony conviction does not automatically preclude someone from working for the federal government, though it does make it slightly more difficult. But in this case, I’ve got a federal judge who is willing to waive liability and commute your sentence from the FBI to, well, me.”

Grantaire made a startled noise and Enjolras looked confused. “Sir, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but what exactly do you think I can do for you? The qualifications for work release require direct correlation between the felon’s talents or expertise and the job to which they would be released.”

“And thankfully, my office is spearheading a Senate task force designed to examine the impacts of economic disparities and the reasons why individuals otherwise completely law abiding turn to the life of a criminal.” He glanced over at Javert, whose expression was carefully neutral, and looked back at Enjolras. “It’s something near and dear to my heart, of course, but with your experience, I don’t think there’s anyone better to help me than you.”

Grabbing Enjolras’s hand and squeezing it, Grantaire asked Valjean excitedly, “And Enjolras would stay out of jail? He’d be doing work with you — good work, work that could change people’s lives — and he wouldn’t be going back to jail?”

Valjean shook his head, but Enjolras asked shrewdly, “How long will the task force run for?”

Smiling, Valjean winked at Enjolras. “And that’s exactly why I want you on my staff. I can’t one hundred percent guarantee it, but I predict that the task force will run for at least the next 4-5 years.”

Grantaire turned to Enjolras and said urgently in undertones, “Look, I know what you’ve said about the federal government — and the state government, local government, and, hell, the school board — but this is an opportunity that you can’t pass up on. Your opinions aside, this is an opportunity for you to do everything you’ve wanted to, all while not being under the FBI’s thumb and most importantly, staying out of jail, and—”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said quietly, but Grantaire shook his head.

“No, I know what arguments you’re going to make and I’m not going to listen to them,” he continued hotly. “Mostly because I’ve heard them all before you and still haven’t yet convinced me, but more importantly because I’m not going to let you throw away what  _would_  actually be the best thing possible for us and a hell of a lot better than once monthly trips up to Sing Sing or wherever you end up. And besides—”

“Grantaire!” Enjolras interrupted, loudly this time, and he squeezed Grantaire’s hand. “I’m going to take the offer.”

“Oh. Then why didn’t you just say that?”

As Enjolras shook his head, exasperated yet fond, Javert stood, fixing Valjean with a calculating look. “In truth, Senator, you’ve solved a few headaches for me. Sending Enjolras back to jail would not have reflected well, certainly, but keeping him here posed a different set of issues, especially given his now abundantly obvious relationship with Agent Grantaire.” Both Enjolras and Grantaire ducked their heads, though Enjolras was smirking and Grantaire couldn’t quite find it in himself to look embarrassed. “And on a personal level, you’ve solved the dilemma of how I invite a convicted felon into my home for employee gatherings.”

Grantaire looked at Javert curiously. “How so?”

It was Valjean who answered, smiling at Javert as he told Grantaire, “Why, I would invite him, of course. It’s my home, too, after all.”

For a moment, Enjolras and Grantaire both looked confused. Then, in the same instant, they both understood. “Oh,” Enjolras said slowly, while Grantaire let out a low whistle under his breath.

Javert cleared his throat. “Very obviously, gentlemen, this is information we would both prefer did not leave this room, at least for the time being. But yes, both the Senator and I look forward to having you both over to our house once all of this is properly arranged.”

“Then I think all that’s left to say is thank you,” Enjolras said seriously to Valjean, offering his hand for the Senator to shake. “I can’t possibly thank you enough for this opportunity, and I look forward to working hard to prove to you that I deserve it and that I’m working to make myself a better man, much like you did.”

Valjean shook his outstretched hand. “I don’t think it’s a matter of making yourself a better man,” he told him. “You and I were quite different from each other — our reasoning was different from the beginning, and it took me a lot longer to come to as selfless a place as you have been for awhile now. Besides, consider this a small token of continued gratitude that you saved my life and the life of my daughter. I’ve not forgotten that.”

He looked over Enjolras’s shoulder at Grantaire and added, “And I’ve not forgotten you, Agent Grantaire, or the role you’ve played in all this. You’ve helped make Enjolras into who he is today, and if ever you’re looking for a different line of work, I’d be just as happy to have you on my staff.”

Grantaire nodded, suddenly tongue-tied, and Valjean clapped Enjolras on the shoulder and led him outside so that they could discuss more details of the work that Enjolras would be doing. Grantaire turned to Javert, curious. “You told me once that you could either be a con or a man, that you couldn’t be both.”

“And I stand by that,” Javert said evenly, leaning back in his chair. “Senator Valjean has proven that he is no longer the con I first new but a man of a caliber I could never have expected. Has Enjolras shown you the same thing?”

Grantaire just shrugged, his expression slightly distant as he stared part where Enjolras and Valjean were in deep conversation out in the hall. Because for the first time, it wasn’t Enjolras he was concerned about.

* * *

 

With Javert’s blessing, Grantaire left work early to take a far more cheerful than this morning Enjolras home. And soon enough, they were joined by the rest of Les Amis, and Bahorel and Feuilly when they got off work. Enjolras was on his fifth recitation of the story of what had happened to those who hadn’t heard it when Courfeyrac beamed and slung his arm around Enjolras’s shoulders. “Do you know what the best part of this story is?” he asked, sounding far too gleeful.

Enjolras frowned at him. “Do I even want to know?”

“Guess who you have to thank for your newest venture, other, of course, than Valjean himself.” Enjolras was silent and Courfeyrac, clearly unable to wait for a guess, blurted, “Marius Pontmercy, the man, the myth, the legend.”

The man in question had unfortunately chosen that moment to come into Courfeyrac’s living room, and he froze in the doorway like a deer in headlights. “What did I do?” he asked nervously.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow at Courfeyrac. “That is the question of the hour,” he said dryly.

Courfeyrac beamed at them both. “Well, I called Pontmercy to keep him updated on what had happened and to talk about how you were going to be going back to jail—”

Grantaire elbowed Enjolras in the ribs, hard, ignoring the fact that Enjolras was still healing. “Did everyone know you were planning that besides me?” he hissed.

“—And he was the one who came up with the alternative plan. Which was assisted by the fact that Marius has some good news of his own — he’s engaged to Valjean’s daughter, Cosette!”

This garnered Marius a modest round of applause from the room, and he blushed bright red and almost tripped over his feet as he stumbled toward the couch, looking like he would prefer the cushions swallowed him whole. “I just suggested it to Valjean,” he mumbled, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “He was more than willing to help.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Come on, Enjy, tell the kid he did a good job. Practically saved your life and all. Practically saved  _all_  our lives, really.”

Enjolras stood, slowly, and crossed towards the couch, and if possible, Marius shrank further against the cushions. “Marius,” Enjolras said, a little formally, and then held out his hand for Marius to shake. “Courfeyrac is right. Courfeyrac is also dead if he ever refers to me as ‘Enjy’ again.” Courfeyrac snorted but Enjolras ignored him. “You saved my life, or at least my life as I know it. And I owe you for that.”

Just as slowly, Marius stood and, tentatively, shook Enjolras’s hand. “It was nothing,” he said, sincerely, then leaned in to tell Enjolras quietly, “And you owe me nothing. Courfeyrac told me what happened with Tholomyès. You literally saved my life.”

Both men smiled at each other, though the moment was promptly ruined by Bossuet shouting, “Get a room, it’ll last longer”, Joly and Jehan making kissing noises while Bahorel mimed throwing up, Courfeyrac sighed dramatically while Feuilly patted his shoulder tentatively, and Combeferre rolled his eyes but was smiling.

Grantaire cleared his throat. “As cute as this moment may be, and trust me, I’m used to this level of cute between Enjolras and Feuilly, which is saying something, I think I actually will be getting a room, so if you’ll excuse both of us…”

And with that, he grabbed Enjolras’s hand and pulled him towards the stairs, ignoring the catcalls and wolf-whistles that followed them. Once they were in Enjolras’s room, Enjolras turned to him and raised an eyebrow. “What was that about?” he asked, amused.

Grantaire didn’t answer, instead pushing Enjolras against the door and kissing him. “I’ve just been wanting to do that all day,” he said, a little breathlessly, his hands flat against Enjolras’s chest. “Because it kind of seems like we’ve gotten everything we could ever want today, and I just wanted to end on what I always want.”

Enjolras smiled, but cocked his head slightly. “Everything  _we_  wanted?” he repeated.

Shrugging, Grantaire leaned in and kissed him again. “I want you to be happy,” he said simply. “And I want you to be with me. And this way, you get what you want and I get what I want, so yeah, everything  _we_  want.”

“And here I thought what you wanted way back before all of this started was to move in together,” Enjolras teased, his hands resting lightly on Enjolras’s hips.

Grantaire just shook his head and laughed, though his laugh was a little shaky. “After all we’ve been through, honestly, I’ll take what I can get at this point.”

Enjolras’s tone turned brisk, almost businesslike. “Well, thankfully, what you can get at this point is quite a lot, because I honestly can’t imagine going forward without waking up next to you everyday.” He reached up to grab both of Grantaire’s hands. “Will you move in with me? Please? Here or in a new apartment or wherever — I don’t want to be separated from you again.”

“Like you even have to ask,” Grantaire said, but he was grinning, and he kissed Enjolras deeply, pausing only when Enjolras winced slightly as Grantaire pressed against him. “Well, consider that my yes since we’re not doing anything else until you’re better.”

Enjolras groaned and followed Grantaire over to the bed. “That is so  _not_ what you said last night.” Grantaire rolled his eyes but continued to look determined and Enjolras sighed. “Fine.” He flopped down on the bed. “Then tell me what you’re going to do about the FBI.”

Grantaire laughed lightly, but it was a fake-sounding laugh. “What are you talking about?”

Enjolras made an impatient noise. “Come on. I’m a bit more observant than you sometimes give me credit for. You haven’t been happy with the FBI since…well, I’m assuming since I was taken, though I wasn’t there to witness that, but it takes a lot to make a man turn his back on them like you did. I don’t think you trust them, and since I know how important trust is to you, I have a feeling that leaves you in almost as uncomfortable a position as I was.”

Sighing slightly, Grantaire shook his head and leaned back against the bed. “It’s been…weird,” he said, after a long minute. “I’ve taken great care never to believe in anything, because if you don’t believe in anything, then you can never be disappointed. But being as disappointed as I am in the FBI and the way things went down, well…maybe I did believe in it after all. In justice, or something.”

“There’s more than one kind of justice in this world,” Enjolras said in a low voice, reaching out to twine his fingers with Grantaire’s, running his thumb reassuringly over the back of Grantaire’s hand. Then he teased, “Besides, I thought the only thing you believed in was me.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes but also rolled over to press a kiss to the corner of Enjolras’s mouth. “You were, as always, the exception to the rule.”

Enjolras snorted. “And goodness knows you’ve been all about breaking the rules lately.”

Though he had meant it as a joke, Grantaire didn’t laugh, his expression contemplative as he said slowly, “Javert always told me that you could be a con or a man, you couldn’t be both. And I’ve been working for the FBI for so long that I thought that was what it meant to be a man.”

Enjolras propped himself up on his elbow. “And what do you think it means now to be a man?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Well, the best man I know is lying right next to me, and I’m pretty sure he’s the definition of both. And maybe being both isn’t quite a bad thing.” He smiled suddenly, a mischievous smile, and added, “Besides, I kind of liked working on the wrong side of the law when we were rescuing you. A hell of a lot less red tape. Maybe I’ll quit. Hell — maybe I’ll take over your role in Les Amis with you on the straight and narrow.”

Enjolras couldn’t help himself — he laughed, and pulled Grantaire down to kiss him. “Criminal,” he whispered, sounding delighted with that fact.

Grantaire laughed and kissed Enjolras as well before telling him, “Takes one to know one.”


End file.
